


Otherside

by rei_c



Series: Five Districts, Five Drugs [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, BDSM, Bisexual Dean, Bloodplay, Drug Use, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Language, Flashbacks, Handcuffs, M/M, Magic, Multi, Phone Sex, Rough Sex, Runes, Sibling Incest, Stanford Era, Tattoos, Underage Sex, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-12
Updated: 2007-01-16
Packaged: 2018-06-09 22:54:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6927268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean goes to pick Sam up from Stanford and ends up finding more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

With traffic on Embarcadero behind him, Dean calls the registrar's office and says he works for a law firm he picked out of the San Francisco phone book not five minutes before, says that a "Samuel Winchester's applied for a job and lists Stanford as his current enrollment. It's just procedure, background checks, you know how it goes," and the woman on the other end of the phone sighs in agreement. He can hear her clicking away at a computer, hears her make a noise that only ever accompanies frowns.

"I'm sorry. Mr. Winchester was a student here, but he resigned his scholarship and transferred out four semesters ago. If you give me just one second," she says, and now Dean's not breathing. "Yes, we sent a transcript to the City College of San Francisco at that time." 

Dean exhales, flirts a bit more with the woman, and hangs up, muttering, "I am _so_ going to kill you when I track you down."

In the end, it's not that hard.

\-- 

Dean gets a motel on the outskirts of the city, where it’s fractionally cheaper, and sleeps for a few hours, until its dark outside and the traffic’s a steady litany of noise coming in through the window. He showers, cleans up, and heads for the Castro district. It’s been too long since he’s fucked or been fucked by another guy, someone with lean muscles and hipbones that lead down to a cock, someone who’s just as male, with stubble, who fights as they fuck. John’s had Dean glued to his side ever since Sam left, as if John was afraid that Dean would take off as well, no matter how many times Dean told him he wasn’t going to, no matter how many ways Dean tried to prove it. 

No surprise, then, that he took off with no hesitation at the first opportunity John gave him, even if it was just going to Stanford to track Sam down for the showdown with the demon. Still, Dean’s not going to turn down the gift fate handed him, so he prowls the streets of the Castro like the best of them, getting plenty of offers but not finding any he wants to take up. 

When he can’t find what he’s looking for, Dean ducks into a bar, dim lighting, hazy even with the ban on smoking, music low and pulsing. He walks to the bar, asks for a couple shots of Jack and downs them, follows them up with a beer. Turning, Dean leans against the counter, bottle in hand and leaking condensation down the side, and surveys the crowd. 

It’s mostly young twenty-somethings, half of them pretty, half of them macho, all of them drunk. There’s a crowd on the dance floor, a few couples pressed against walls, but Dean doesn’t see anything more risqué than some very inspired frotting. 

“Looking for something?” someone says next to Dean, and Dean turns, takes a drink while he looks over the man next to him. About the same height as him, deeper tan that screams surfer along with blond hair and eyes that must sparkle like crazy in sunlight. 

“I wasn’t expecting to find a beach bunny up here,” Dean says, and the man laughs, the sound trickling into Dean’s ears and down his spine. Dean looks away, back out at the crowd, and says, “And yeah, I am. I don’t think I’ve found it yet.” 

The man doesn’t seem to take offence at that, just has a sip of his own beer, shifting so he’s leaning back against the bar just like Dean, following Dean’s gaze. “Its not the best group tonight,” he admits after a minute. “But you’re new here, yeah? I haven’t seen you in before. My name’s Ben.” 

Dean looks over, raises his bottle in acknowledgement, finishes it, signals for another. “Dean,” he says. “And you’re right, I’ve never been here before. In and out of town, hopefully a quick visit. Thought I might find something tonight, but.” He trails off, shrugs. 

“Well, there’s one person guaranteed to make you happy,” Ben says, before adding with a laugh, “And don’t worry, it’s not me.” He nods in the direction of the dance floor, at a booth just on the edge, where one man’s sitting on another’s lap. From what Dean can see, the two are kissing, and the man on top, long and lean, with a neck Dean would love to see marked up, is moving up and down. 

“Who’s he?” Dean asks, shifting slightly. 

Ben grins, says, “That’s Sam,” and Dean’s focus narrows. 

\--

_“Shit, Sam, what the fuck’s gotten into you?”_

_Sam, on his knees, mouth full of Dean’s cock, answers by sucking harder, swallowing Dean down a little deeper, hands placed on his own knees, not otherwise moving. Dean wants to know why the hell Sam didn’t even bother taking his coat off after bursting in the door from school, early, no less, which meant he was skipping, before pushing Dean up against the wall and pulling out Dean’s cock. Part of Dean wants to know, at any rate; the rest of Dean, including his dick, is very much okay with this and might be running hands through Sam’s hair, might be thrusting into that wet heat, might have started muttering words less like questions and more like encouragement._

_After Dean’s spilled down Sam’s throat, Sam leans back, looks up and barely meets Dean’s eyes. Dean catches his breath, pulls Sam up and flips them around, so Sam’s pressed against the wall. Sam swallows, looks over Dean’s shoulder, so Dean grabs Sam’s chin and forces his brother to look at him._

_“Seriously,” Dean says. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but what the hell happened?”_

_Sam swallows again, licks his lips, and Dean can see his brother’s Adam’s apple jump before Sam says, “I heard,” stops, starts again, “Geena was talking to some of her posse before lunch.”_

_Dean groans, lets Sam go, and stalks over to the couch, sits down heavily. He hears Sam follow, footsteps just barely audible, because as tall as Sam’s getting, he’s as graceful and light on his feet as a cat. “Geena’s a bitch,” Dean says, and pats the couch next to him._

_Sam hesitates, but sits down, a clear line of space between them, and doesn’t look at Dean as he says, “Geena said,” before Dean cuts him off._

_“Geena’s a bitch,” Dean says. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “And she’s got crabs.” Sam gives him a narrow-eyed look, and Dean shrugs. “Someone else told me. Look, no matter what she says, I never did anything with her. She wouldn’t have minded, but I said no, okay? I haven’t, with anyone, not since we.”_

_He knows he’s stumbling over his words, must look as uncomfortable as he feels, but Sam lies down, puts his head in Dean’s lap, and its better. They’re better, even if Sam actually thought Dean would fuck around on him, even if Sam’s not looking at Dean, body still tense as Dean runs his hands through Sam’s hair._

_They’re better. They have to be._

\--

It doesn’t look like _his_ Sam, though there are resemblances. The hair’s the right length but the wrong colour, the clothes aren’t at all anything like Sam would wear and the body’s too skinny, but the glimpses of hands Dean gets sends a pang through his chest that’s been hardwired to his cock since he was twenty. 

“Guaranteed, huh?” he asks, and Ben laughs again. 

“Best whore in the city. Expensive, and it’s fucking impossible to get an appointment inside of four days, but Frankie?” Ben stops, turns around, and Dean does as well. 

The bartender’s looking at Ben, eyebrow raised as if it’s an answer. 

“Frankie, you said Sam’s schedule’s open tonight?” 

The bartender, who Dean’s just now noticing is wearing clothes more suitable for a manager, even the owner, of a place like this, nods. “He had a couple of appointments, but they cancelled. You thinking of taking one of them, Ben? It’s been a while since you’ve had a taste.” 

Ben turns to look at Sam, and then looks back at Frankie, shaking his head, though Dean thinks Ben’s eyes seem vaguely glazed, pupils a bit wider. It could be the light, but somehow, Dean doesn’t think it is. 

“Maybe later, if he’s up for it,” Ben says, before wrapping an arm around Dean’s shoulder. “This is Dean. He’s from out of town, looking for a good time. Think Sam’d have him?” 

Frankie’s eyes trace over Dean, lingering on Dean’s mouth, the hand wrapped around the bottle of beer, sliding in the condensation. “You’d have to answer a few questions, agree to follow the rules,” Frankie eventually says, “and we expect payment in cash, in full, up front.” 

“What kind of questions?” Dean asks, eyes flicking between the two men. All this, just for a guy Ben called a whore? Still, no one else is remotely interesting and if he’s as good as Ben says, well. “And what kind of money are we talking, here?” 

Ben grins, elbows Dean, and when Dean turns to look at him, says, “I’ll let you two negotiate, hmm? Have fun, Dean, and if I’m still here when you’re done, let me know if I was right,” before walking off. 

Dean turns back to Frankie, sets the beer on the bar-top, and sits on one of the stools. The questions come fast. 

“Are you clean? When were you last tested? Have you ever been with another guy? What are you into? What would you expect Sam to do?”

Dean answers all of them, and Frankie looks at him for a long, weighted moment, before nodding. 

“All right, yeah, you’ll do. How long would you want him for?” 

Dean turns, lays eyes on Sam, sees the way the guy underneath him is wrung-out, grinning, head thrown back on the chair, the way Sam’s leaning forward and whispering something into his ear. “How much would two hours be?” Dean asks, tearing his eyes away.

\--

The price is high, but Dean’s got cash in his wallet, hard-earned hustling money, and one more look at Sam, with those curls of hair brushing the nape of his neck, two shades too light, even in the dim atmosphere, has him pushing it across the bar. 

Frankie takes the wad of bills, counts them, and puts the whole handful in a lockbox on the other side, underneath a bottle of cloudy white liquid, no label. He gestures, and one of the waiters comes to the bar immediately, eyes sizing Dean up quickly. “Take Dean upstairs,” Frankie says. “And when he’s settled, come back down and tell Sam he has a client.”

“You want me to make the run tonight?” the waiter asks, and Dean doesn’t understand what the questions means, just sees Frankie nod and tilt his head in the direction of the lockbox. It makes his skin crawl, something about that exchange, but he follows the kid up a flight of stairs in the back, leaving the low, pulsing music and the hum of the crowd downstairs. 

\--

It’s quieter upstairs, but there’s still a thrum of music every so often vibrating the floor under Dean’s feet. The waiter, a kid who looks barely legal, leads Dean left, down a narrow hallway, once they get to the top of the steps. The hallway’s clean, well-lit, and there’s a door on one side marked ‘Private: Personal’ and one across from it marked ‘Private: Business.’ The kid opens the latter, ducks his head inside, and then gestures for Dean to go in. 

“Sam’ll be with you in a minute,” he says, as Dean walks in and studies the bed, the sturdy-looking dresser with drawers and a tray of keys on top, the manacles on the wall. There’s a window, looking over the street out front, and as Dean crosses the room, suddenly uncomfortable, the kid asks, “Can I have him bring you up a drink?” 

Dean turns back, says, “Thanks, no,” and then finishes walking to the window, looking out and seeing the reflection as the kid nods and closes the door behind him. 

It’s just Dean, the barely-there thump of the bass beat, and the sounds filtering through the window from the street outside. He should feel ridiculous, paying for a whore, but he remembers the sight of what he’s bought for the next two hours and feels his cock start to swell. Fingers grip the edge of the windowsill without conscious thought, turn white with pressure, as Dean takes the image of the whore and overlays it with the mental image he’s kept close, fallen asleep every night thinking of since the real one left. _Sam._

Footsteps outside, and Dean stiffens, but the person goes into the other room, must, because Dean hears a door creaking and it isn’t his. A minute or two later and the door creaks again, and then there’s a knock on his door, light and gentle. 

“It’s open,” Dean says, voice thin, flat, and the door opens and the whore walks in. The reflection isn’t clear, but he studies what he can see, makes a mental comparison. The face is too thin, the cheekbones too pronounced, but he can imagine what they’ll feel like under his hands. The clothes, they just aren’t right, and from this side Dean can tell this Sam is far skinnier than his own, heroin chic. 

The door closes, and the man says, “Dean,” quietly, almost too quietly. Dean jumps, almost turns around, then realises that Frankie knows his name, Frankie and the waiter both, of course they’d tell the slut. The voice, it’s close, almost too close, but not the same. Shredded, almost, and smokier, but Dean’s cock is hard now, aching against the confines of his jeans, and he’s lost feeling in his fingers. 

“Frankie tell you what I want?” Dean asks, eyes flicking from the reflection of Sam to the street below, two men making out on the other side, against the wall of a sex shop. “Or do I get to say the whole thing again?” 

Sam stands there, then moves; Dean tracks the reflection, drawn again to the way that hair curls and flares out from the nape of Sam’s neck. Sam goes to the dresser, opens a drawer and takes out a pair of handcuffs, plain silver, and picks a key from the tray on top. He turns again, places them on the bed, and then says, “ _Dean_ ,” like the name means something. 

Dean can’t help turning at that, mouth dry, and when he’s facing Sam, he realises he’s facing his brother. 

\--

_“I want you to fuck me.”_

_Dean almost laughs, but then he sees the look on Sam’s face, and the amusement fades into something like suspicion. “What?” he asks, because he’s clearly misunderstood something._

_Sam crosses his arms, looks at Dean, shakes the bangs out of his hair, and says it again, exactly the same. “I want you to fuck me.”_

_Dean blinks, says, “See, that’s funny, because I thought that’s what you said the first time. Sam. Did someone put you up to this? Give you something? What’s going on?”_

_Sam is fifteen, Sam is wearing a pair of jeans slung low on his hips and an old, thin t-shirt that is stretched much too tight over his chest, and Sam is saying it again, like he’s being completely serious. “I want you to fuck me. How much clearer can I get? Your dick, my ass.” Sam is fifteen, Sam is Dean’s only brother, and Sam is completely serious._

_Dean sits down on the edge of the bed and considers the possibility that his brother has gone completely batshit insane, ignoring the thin edges of want curling in his belly._

\--

“Sam,” Dean breathes, and stands there, frozen, unable to do more than say it again, prayer and hope and curse. “Sam. You’re. It’s _you_.” 

Sam gives him a little half-grin, runs one hand through his hair. “Should fucking hope so,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like the Sam that Dean remembers. “Otherwise I’m having one hell of an identity crisis.” One little half-laugh, more jaded and cynical than Dean ever remembers Sam being capable of, and then Sam shifts slightly, enough to attract Dean’s eyes to the hip jutting out to one side, hand resting there, the toe-tap, the down tilt of Sam’s chin, enough so that dyed hair falls over one eye and frames the other one. 

It’s a pose, a practiced one, and Dean sees red. He flies across the room, smashes his lips to Sam’s, one hand curling around Sam’s head and sliding up into that mop of colour-lightened hair and yanking, and he ignores the small noise Sam makes against his lips, thrusts his tongue inside of Sam’s mouth and uses his other hand to pull Sam’s body flush against his, fingers digging into Sam’s ass. He doesn’t stop until Sam’s body is loose, pliant, and when he pulls away, pulls back, Sam’s panting, a spot of red high in both of Sam’s cheeks. 

“Why the _fuck_ have you been _whoring_ ,” he demands, hands curling into fists at his sides, trying to keep himself from taking out this anger on Sam. “Most expensive slut in the city, that’s what I heard, Sam. Booked up for days, free for the taking to the highest bidder. Tell me why.” 

“I needed the money,” Sam says, and though he shrugs, though he smiles, his eyes look dead. 

Dean can’t help it, can’t stop himself. He lets one fly, and a moment later, Sam’s stumbling back, one hand pressed against his nose, trying to stop the blood trickling out. There’s already a bruise blossoming on Sam’s cheekbone, but Dean doesn’t think Sam feels the pain at all. 

“Why did you need the money, huh? What could be worth selling yourself?” 

Sam doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he heads for the dresser, pulls open a drawer and takes out a small hand towel, black, and presses it to his nose, follows that up with antiseptic cream for the cheek. 

Dean watches Sam’s face in the mirror above the dresser, and Sam’s eyes flick to Dean just once, before Sam pinches his nose and waits for the bleeding to stop. 

When it does, Sam dabs the dried blood away and finally looks at Dean again, dropping the hand towel in a garbage can next to the bed. 

“Didn’t you ever wonder, Dean?” he asks, and when Dean raises an eyebrow as if to say, _No idea what you’re talking about_ , Sam says, “I did. You always told me I was good, Dean, best piece of ass you ever had, best mouth, best at begging, always willing to take it.”

“So, what,” Dean says, feeling his stomach sink. “You wanted to know if I was _right_? Sam.” He trails off, almost at a loss. “Jesus, Sam, it wasn’t like that and you know it. You _know_ it.” 

Sam slinks across the room, walks around Dean, trails two fingertips across Dean’s shoulders, back, down one arm. There’s sex in the walk, sex in the touch, and Dean’s painfully aware that he’s hard again, any arousal lost by the revelation, by his anger, back along with more. 

“I needed the money,” Sam breathes into Dean’s ear, and Dean can’t help the way that breath, moist and intimate, makes his skin race. “This is what you told me I was good at.” Another laugh, one that makes Dean’s skin crawl, and not in a good way, and Sam says, “And, Dean, I am,” like he sounds proud of the fact. 

He’s made one full circle of Dean, fingers grazing over the bulge in Dean’s jeans before he backs away, almost as if he’s enticing Dean to follow, and Dean takes one step before he shakes his head and stops. 

“What happened to you?” Dean asks. “What happened to Stanford? All that you left us for?” 

“All that I left _you_ for, isn’t that what you mean?” Sam asks. It doesn’t sound at all like it hurts him to say that, and Dean swallows, has to look away when he nods. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just fuck me? You paid for the privilege.” 

Dean stares at his brother, and Sam rolls his eyes, goes over to the bed, and crawls up on it, plants himself with his back at the headboard, legs spread and splayed out, head cocked in invitation. Another pose, but not one that Dean outwardly reacts to. Inwardly, he feels like his life’s just been turned upside down, like everything he thought he knew is wrong, except the need, the sheer, utter compulsion, to fuck that smile off of Sam’s face. 

“Tell me, Sam.” 

Sam looks at him, then nods, leans back and reaches up with his hands, starts playing with the top button of his shirt. “You were right, about Stanford. I didn’t belong there, especially without any money. Oh, the full ride was nice, but that didn’t cover anything but tuition and my dorm, and working a minimum-wage job doesn’t exactly cover books and fees and clothes. I needed money, so I came down here one night and auditioned for Frankie. Waiting tables, mostly, a few quick blowjobs in the back for the better customers, and when the semester was done, I transferred out, moved down here. The room across the hall’s mine.” 

The top two buttons of Sam’s shirt are unbuttoned and Sam’s playing with the third. Dean can see the sharp edge of Sam’s collarbone, can’t help but say, “You’re skinny. You haven’t been this skinny since you were nine and shot up six inches in a week.”

Sam’s fingers still for a moment, and as Dean watches them, far too graceful for being so large, Sam says, “I’m a heroin addict, Dean.” 

Dean opens his mouth, shuts it when nothing comes out but air. 

“Started after I moved down here. There was a New Year’s party, one of my clients dosed me up, and I was still numb the next day, didn’t mind it when one of the others fucked me a little too hard. I don’t mind the pain as much now, but I don’t feel like stopping the drugs, either. Everyone pays Frankie, and he takes care of me, buys me clothes and h, I eat and drink here, I sleep across the hall, and all I have to do is live up to my reputation.” 

“Best whore in the city,” Dean murmurs, and Sam nods, undoes the next button on his shirt, the last one, and tosses it off to the side. Dean’s eyes trace Sam’s torso, the sharp ridges of bones, the long, lean lines of muscles still there, the tanned skin and tattoo over Sam’s heart, _Ad Libitum_ , in small, black letters. His gaze dips lower, towards Sam’s belly button and the circle of words around that, and he doesn’t have to get closer to read them.

\--

_Dean looks down, runs his hands across his stomach, and hisses in through his teeth as his fingers graze the red flesh. It still seems unreal, and when he looks up and sees Sam on the table, under the needles, a flush of heat runs through his veins. “Why couldn’t you pick something shorter?” he asks, running a finger around his belly button, through the words, the pain mixing with pleasure._

_“Because I liked this,” Sam replies, and Dean’s a little vindicated at the fact that Sam sounds like he’s in the slightest bit of pain._

_Dean looks down again, and though the words are upside down, he can still read them, every letter, every crossed ‘t’ and dotted ‘i.’_

__Indivisibiliter ac inseparabiliter.

_“Where’d you come up with this, anyway?” the tattoo guy says, as he finishes the first word and starts the second. “I don’t see many people come in asking for Latin.”_

_Dean starts to say something about being brothers, signing up for the Marines or something, because Sam’s seventeen and fucking huge, and the tattoo guy doesn’t need to know Sam saw it in one of his history books and liked it, thought it suited them, what they have, what they are, convinced Dean this was a good idea by blowing him stupid._

_When they finish and get into the Impala, pull away from the shop, Sam leans over and says, low and quiet, right into Dean’s ear, “I can’t wait to get my tongue on it. Bet it’s all hot and aching; think I could cool it down? Distract you from the pain?”_

_Dean drives faster, and Sam blows him on the way to their crappy little apartment, mouth tight and wet and hot, and he’s right: it’s a good way to distract Dean from the aching itch, but it’s better when he’s balls-deep in Sam’s ass, listening to his brother beg and pant, feel him writhing underneath._

\--

Sam’s jeans are tight. Dean remembers, from downstairs, seeing Sam on that other guy’s lap, the way the denim molded to Sam’s ass, hugged hips. Sam never wore tight jeans before. 

Dean’s beginning to think that maybe he was right all along, that this Sam is just a reflection of the one who took off at midnight from a place that wasn’t nice, but was home, without telling anyone, calling them six hours later from a payphone a couple hundred miles away. 

Still, he can’t help it when Sam moves again, shifts, and the denim moves over the line of Sam’s cock. 

“You make a good whore,” Dean says, irrationally hoping to see that hurt Sam, hit him somewhere just as painfully as his fist did. 

Sam just shrugs, shakes his head so that the curls move, float in the air for a moment, and says, “You told me that first. Ever think you might have a good eye for spotting it?” 

“You weren’t,” Dean snaps, and then deflates as Sam leans forward, those muscles in his chest rippling, distracting him. “Before, when it was just us,” and he rubs his stomach absently, fingers tracing the tattoo circling his belly button. “You weren’t a whore, Sam. Not until you came out here and.” 

“I was _your_ whore, Dean,” Sam says gently, and he prowls down the bed, somehow making it seem like it takes forever, though Sam’s still tall and the bed’s not _that_ big. “Only difference now is experience. You should see what I can do.” Sam climbs off the bed, walks to Dean, and sinks to his knees in an achingly slow movement, like he’s in a video and moving frame-by-frame. “I’ll show you,” he breathes, and leans forward, presses his nose into Dean’s crotch. 

Dean closes his eyes, clenches his hands into fists, and says, “Sam, I don’t. You don’t,” but he doesn’t move, can’t move, as Sam’s mouth closes over the button on Dean’s jeans. 

It doesn’t take long, but there are nudges of Sam’s nose and chin, artfully placed to make Dean’s heart stop and start a few times before the button pops open and Sam starts dragging down Dean’s zipper tooth by tooth. The noise echoes in the room, bounces up against the thump from the bass downstairs as the music seems to change, get lower and deeper through the walls, the floor. 

Sam mouths Dean’s cock through his boxer-briefs, his hands reach up to pull Dean’s jeans off, and Dean doesn’t move a muscle, can’t breathe. He’s been thinking about this ever since Sam left, dreamt about it, jerked off to memories of it, but then Sam’s pulling down Dean’s boxers, and the air in the room is cold, makes him shiver. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Dean says. 

Sam looks up at him, says, “You paid for it,” and scoots closer, rests his hands on Dean’s hips, and swallows Dean’s erection down in one smooth motion. 

It’s better than Dean remembers; Sam’s right about the experience. He’s using his tongue and teeth together in a way Dean’s never felt before, pressure and, fuck, it feels so good that Dean can’t help looking down, can’t help moving one hand, letting his palm slide over Sam’s curls and rest on the back of Sam’s skull. 

Sam’s fingers trace something out over Dean’s hipbones and Dean feels his blood explode, can’t stop the thrust into Sam’s mouth as his body finally realises that this is _Sam_ , Sam’s lips around his cock, Sam on his knees. The hand on Sam’s skull clenches, tightens, and it’s like something’s taken over because all he can think of is Sam’s mouth, fucking that wet heat and making it his, spilling down Sam’s throat, coming so hard some of it dribbles out from Sam’s lips, and he can’t stop his hips from moving. 

Sam sits there, takes it and looks up at Dean, eyes framed by those ridiculously long bangs, cheekbones prominent in shadow, and the look in his eyes is still so dead, so blank. Dean growls, fucks his brother’s mouth with abandon, hoping he can put something, some emotion or expression into those eyes that used to be so animated, but then he’s coming, almost surprised, and when he’s done, Sam just leans back and licks his lips. 

“Was it good for you?” he asks, voice husky and raw, and when Dean can move again, still feeling that strange, overpowering need to fuck Sam, he shoves Sam backwards, until Sam hits the bed. 

He sits with an “Oof,” and looks up at Dean, licks his lips, and slides backwards, using his arms, legs open. Dean can’t take his eyes off of Sam, but then he sees a flash of black on the inside of Sam’s arm. 

Sam must see that Dean’s caught it, because he smiles and tilts his arm, shows Dean the small ‘X’ just above the crook of his elbow, and says, “Y’know, for every time I complained that it took so much to make your bruises show up on my skin, I’m thankful for it now.” He lays back, toys with the button of his jeans, and adds, “Everyone knows I ride the white horse and love it just as much as I love riding their dicks. Some of them even like to watch me cook up and shoot, Dean.” 

He pauses, finally undoes the button, starts playing with the zipper, and carries on, says, “What about you? Would you like to see me do it? Frankie keeps the h downstairs, you probably saw the bottle.” 

Dean thinks back, remembers that unlabelled bottle of cloudy white liquid above the lockbox. It takes a moment of breathing to work through pure rage, and register what Sam’s saying. 

“…see the way the needle slides in, soft and smooth, the way it looks going into me, and then coming out again, the drop of blood that wells up on my skin, right in the middle of the ‘x.’ Sometimes I wipe it up and lick it away, if that’s what people want, Dean.” 

Dean can’t take it, not anymore, and he jumps onto the bed, moves up towards Sam, grabbing the handcuffs along the way, and straddles his brother, locks Sam’s hands into the cuffs, around the headboard. 

Sam smiles, writhes underneath him, and says, “Now what’re you gonna do, hmm?” He leans back against the pillows, lets his hands relax in the cuffs, and says, “You gonna fuck me, Dean? It’s been a while, are you sure you can remember how?” 

“I think I can remember just fine,” Dean murmurs, before he bites down hard on Sam’s collarbone and tugs the skin. Sam doesn’t react, except to blink at Dean and sigh. 

\--

_Dean stops, asks again, “Sam? Are you sure?”_

_Sam looks back over his shoulder, wiggles his ass, and says, “Just come on and_ fuck me _, Dean, God.”_

_It wasn’t so bad jerking Sam off, learning the weight and feel of Sam’s cock in his hand, wasn’t even so bad licking his hand after Sam came, immediately memorising the flavour of Sam in his mouth. It wasn’t even so bad when he had two fingers up Sam’s ass, coated in lube and stretching his brother’s hole, but now, looking down, condom packet in one hand, it just feels like this is one line they shouldn’t be crossing._

_Sam moves, and before Dean can fully pull himself out of his thoughts, Sam’s taking the packet from Dean’s hand, opening it with his teeth and rolling it on to Dean’s cock. That feeling, of latex and someone’s warm hands, makes Dean groan, sway, and Sam pushes him onto his back, straddles him, and sinks down on to him._

_Dean can see Sam wince, and hears him mutter something, but then Dean’s inside all the way, Sam’s panting, sitting there, getting used to the feeling of Dean’s cock, and Dean’s hesitation disappears. When Sam lifts up, he tosses Sam to the side and before Sam can protest, he’s got one of Sam’s legs over his shoulder and his dick disappearing inside of Sam._

_Sam makes this noise that Dean’s never heard before, from anyone he’s fucked, and if he ever has to pick a moment later when he becomes addicted to Sam, this is it._

\--

Dean pulls the zipper of Sam’s jeans down and rips them off, unsurprised to see that Sam’s not wearing any underwear. He takes a moment to study his brother’s body, his earlier thought of ‘heroin chic’ coming back to haunt him at the sight of Sam’s bones, not an extra ounce of fat anywhere on Sam’s frame, barely enough muscle to keep good definition. Sam could stand to gain about fifty pounds and he’d still be slender. 

His blood hasn’t stopped pounding the demand to fuck Sam, though, so he says, “Lube,” and doesn’t expect Sam to merely open his mouth, raise an eyebrow. Dean shrugs, mutters, “If that’s the way you wanna play it,” and shoves two fingers in Sam’s mouth, the wet suction going straight to Dean’s cock, as if those lips are tight around his dick and not his fingers. Dean can’t help the shallow thrust of his hips, and when Sam smiles around his fingers, he pulls them out and presses one to Sam’s hole, pushing in past the resistance without slowing. 

Sam arches, spreads his legs, pulls on the handcuffs, and looks so debauched, lying there naked, colour flooding his cheeks, cock starting to take notice of what’s going on, that Dean can’t help leaning forward and running his teeth down Sam’s neck. Sam arches into the contact, clenches his muscles around Dean’s finger, and looks at Dean, says, “Thought you’d be in a hurry.” 

Dean takes out his finger, shoves both in, and growls when Sam doesn’t do more than laugh. 

“Not taking very good advantage of your two hours, are you?” 

His pulse pounds, and he needs to wipe that look off of Sam’s face, so puts on a condom, lines up, and sinks in all the way, without going slow, without being gentle. It has to hurt, but Sam just smiles lazily, shifts under Dean. Dean snarls, bares his teeth, and starts to fuck his brother. 

In some distant part of his mind, below this driving need, this urge he can’t control, he thinks it’s nothing like he’d imagined, the first time inside of his brother in years. He’d thought it would be more gentle, or at least an act that both of them were involved in, wanted, but Sam’s just laying there no matter how hard Dean thrusts or how deep his fingers dig into Sam’s hips, and he can’t get Sam’s words out of his head, that ‘ _You paid for it_ ,’ like Sam’s just a high-priced whore and Dean’s a client, no history, no feeling. 

Sam’s tight; Dean didn’t think that would be possible after two and a half years of lying down and taking it up the ass. He’s tight, and he’s closed his eyes, though they open again after a long handful of minutes, after a pinch perilously close to one of Sam’s nipples. 

“Want you to see me,” Dean mutters, moving the bed with the force of his pounding. “Want you to know who’s fucking you.” Sam starts to grin, opens up that mouth to say something idiotic, no doubt, so Dean feels justified in shoving three fingers in Sam’s mouth, ordering him to suck. It shuts Sam up, and Dean’s shuddering, rhythm faltering, as Sam’s tongue darts between his fingers, traces the curve of his nails, lays small, dancing points on his skin. 

Dean comes, and when he’s done, pulled out, he unlocks the handcuffs, lies down next to Sam, stares at the ceiling, and says, “I’ve still got an hour. Show me what you’ve learned.” 

\--

Sam’s good. Maybe they’re right, maybe he is the best in the city, the best in the fucking state, because by the end of the second hour, after Sam does things Dean didn’t even know existed, he’s limp and wrung-out, boneless on the bed. It’s as if all of his blood has finally stopped pumping and all he can do is lie there, watch as Sam gathers up his clothes, puts all the used condoms in a garbage can, drops all the toys in a big pile on the floor. 

“Not gonna pick them up?” Dean asks, voice hoarse, throat in agony, because Sam was never a neat freak before, but he didn’t just leave things lying around the place, not when John could come back needing to be stitched up at any minute. 

“Someone else’ll clean them and put them away,” Sam says, and then there’s a knock on the door. Sam tilts his head at Dean, gives Dean a good long look at the green bruise on his cheek, says, “Time’s up. Take as long as you need and then head down,” and leaves. 

The door closes behind Sam, a gentle little click of a latch, and Dean can hear two people talking outside. He thinks they say something about marks, maybe, and Dean shuts his eyes as he remembers. Two hours of Sam, two hours of sex, his thumbprints, fingerprints all over Sam, imprints of teeth and nails scattered over Sam’s body, the bruises everywhere. Dean wasn’t supposed to leave marks, not that many, at least, and yet he did, couldn’t stop himself. 

Across the hall, the door creaks open and then closed in rapid succession, and footsteps echo down the stairs. Dean gets up, gets dressed, and walks out into the hallway. He looks at the door to Sam’s own room, “Private: Personal,” and considers knocking, but heads down the stairs. Frankie frowns at him, and Dean slips away before Ben can cross the dance floor. 

Once outside, Dean takes a deep breath, and then heads for the Impala, looking back once. He thinks he sees Sam watching him from the window, but then he blinks and the impression of a person is gone, was probably just someone cleaning up the room, getting it ready for Sam’s next client. Dean scowls, walks faster, and when he drives away from the bar, he doesn’t stop until he hits Utah, greasing the way with coffee and the anger generated from lite-rock station after lite-rock station, all of _his_ music reminding him too much of his brother.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean finds a motel and sleeps for fifteen hours. His body feels better afterwards, rested, but still tight and sore in a way that reminds him of good sex. That doesn’t make his mind any calmer, especially after the dreams, watching Sam being fucked by faceless person after faceless person while Dean was stuck behind a glass wall, unable to get to his brother, unable to do anything but pound on the glass and scream. 

A hot shower, a quick run to the nearest diner for food, and Dean feels slightly human until he realises he never told Sam why he finally went looking for his younger brother. With a muttered curse, Dean picks up his phone, calls information, and when someone picks up the other end, Dean says, “I need to talk to Sam.” 

There’s a dry laugh, and Dean recognises Frankie’s voice at the reply. “Is this Dean?” 

“Look, cut the crap and let me talk to my,” he says, almost slipping before he catches himself and says, “Sam. Let me talk to Sam.” 

“Dean, you passed the boundaries we had established last night, by a large amount. Luckily, there are people who prefer to see Sam marked up before their appointments, but, otherwise, your actions could have lost Sam this evening’s income,” Frankie says. 

Dean huffs, resists the urge to start screaming, and says, “Let me talk to Sam. He told you to pass my calls on to him, I know he did.” 

There’s a pause, murmured voices, and then Sam’s on the other end of the phone. 

“What is it, Dean? Are you looking to make another appointment?” 

The sound of Sam’s voice makes Dean’s heart clench, the words make his vision narrow. “I was trying to find you for a reason, Sam. I didn’t track you down just to.” He stops, unable to put what happened the night before into words, irrationally worried that if he does, if he says the words, they’ll make it all real, the sex, Sam’s attitude and those dead eyes, the way he drove out of San Francisco and kept going. 

“Just to mark me up and fuck me raw?” Sam says lightly, far too lightly. 

Dean exhales, lets his head drop, barely retains the hold he has on his phone. “Yeah,” he breathes. Sam sounded, he _knew_ what Dean was thinking, and Dean breathes again as he realises that Sam’s changed, is this creature he doesn’t at all recognise, and he himself hasn’t grown up at all in the three years since Sam left. 

“Sam, Dad has a lead on the demon,” Dean says. There’s silence, so Dean says, “He knows where it’s going to be in a few days, less than a week. He told me to come and get you, said there needs to be three of us there to take it out.” 

Still silence, until Sam says, “And why does he think I want anything to do with this? I left, remember?” There’s more murmuring on the other end, muffled, as if Sam’s got one hand covering the phone; Dean can’t make out the words. “Tell him whatever you want, Dean. I’m not going with you.” 

“Wait, Sam, don’t hang up,” Dean bursts out before he can stop himself. “I’ll. I’ll pay. For you to come with me. It’s only a week.” 

“Dean,” Sam says, almost gently, “you can’t afford me. Let me know when it’s done.” 

All Dean can hear for an hour is the side of the dial tone after Sam hangs up on him. 

\--

_They’ve come back to the motel from a hunt, after a poltergeist in an old house has thrown them through a few walls, dumped a few pieces of furniture on top of them. John’s already asleep, exhausted after three days of tracking the son of a bitch down instead of sleeping and then the fight, and Dean’s straddling the toilet, letting Sam stitch up his back._

_Dean’s already showered, rinsed the blood and dust off, and Sam’s silent, pulling needle and thread through the longest and deepest gashes on Dean’s back, courtesy of a window with edges of jagged glass. Sam has already doused every piece of broken skin with holy water and peroxide, bandaged Dean up, and when he ties the last knot, cuts the thread, he puts everything away and leaves the bathroom without saying a word._

_Dean is tired, aches, and he can feel the painkillers start to kick in when he stands up and follows Sam to the bedroom they’re sharing. “Sam, come on, I’m the one,” he starts, but Sam shakes his head._

_“You wouldn’t be hurt if you hadn’t jumped in front of me,” Sam says. “If the force-field hit me, I would’ve been thrown against a wall, a wall that wasn’t covered in glass shards. Besides, we all know I heal faster than you.”_

_At something of a loss, Dean says, “I didn’t realise there was a window there.”_

_Sam whirls around, so fast it almost makes Dean dizzy just watching. Sam looks angry, furious, and he sounds even worse when he says, “So, what? You’re just gonna act without thinking of the consequences all the time?” A bitter laugh, and then, “You’re an idiot, Dean, and you’ve only gotten worse since we started fucking. Stop treating me like glass. I’m not going to break.”_

_Dean sits on the bed, painkillers making him woozy, and he looks up at Sam, trying to find the words to say how much he wants to protect Sam, how much he wants to keep Sam safe, and not being able to, it kills him, he’ll go through a million windows before he’ll do anything to cause Sam pain._

_Except then Sam’s kneeling between his legs, hand on Dean’s cheek, and Dean realises he’s just said all of that out loud. Sam doesn’t look angry anymore, an improvement, but he looks sad now, like he’s almost ready to cry._

_“Lie down and try to sleep,” Sam says, and so Dean shifts, closes his eyes, and lays there, wide awake and stoned out of his mind, until Sam sighs and crawls into bed next to him, curls around Dean._

_When the ring of the telephone wakes Dean up in the morning, the sun’s shining in through the window, and Sam’s gone._

\--

For the first time in Dean’s life, John answers his phone after three rings. “Dean, where are you two?” 

Dean’s mouth, already dry, now feels like the Sahara, and he swallows, speaks through it. “It’s just me, Dad. Sam’s not coming.” 

Silence, eerily similar to the silence Dean got from Sam, and he wonders, not for the first time, how his father and brother never saw how alike they really are. 

“What do you mean, not coming?” John asks. 

“He’s not coming,” Dean says again. It’s not an answer, and he knows it, but he’s not about to tell John about Sam, what Sam’s like now, what Sam’s doing now. “Where should I meet you?” 

“Dean,” John says. 

Dean cuts him off before he can say anything else. “I told him, Dad, told him and told him you wanted him there. He’s not coming, that’s all, that’s it.” 

John sighs, the sound tinny over the mobile connection, and finally says, “Three days in Missouri. There’s a place just south of Eldon on Highway 54, small town with one motel. I’ve already reserved a couple rooms. I’ll swing by and pick up Caleb on my way. If you get there first, it’s in the usual name.” 

“I tried, Dad,” Dean whispers after a few seconds. 

He thinks John’s already hung up, but then an echoing whisper comes back, an, “I know, Dean. I know,” before the call ends. 

It’s small consolation that John sounds just as desolate as Dean feels, just as kicked aside and unwanted. 

\--

Dean calls the bar again the next day, when he’s halfway through Colorado. Frankie answers, says that Sam’s busy, and hangs up on Dean. 

One hundred and fifty miles later, Dean calls back, and this time Frankie reluctantly puts Dean on hold. When it rings through to what must be Sam’s phone, Dean has to pull over, park the Impala on the side of the road. 

“Yes?” 

It’s a simple question, one word, but Dean hears smoke and sex in that one syllable, the promise of pleasure. His pulse skyrockets, his mind dredges up a memory of Sam on his knees, Sam underneath him, the flash of light on silver handcuffs, and Dean’s glad he’s pulled over because all the blood in his body rushed south and he’s painfully hard inside his jeans. Dean presses his palm against his dick, willing himself to focus. 

“It’s me. Are you.” 

Sam laughs, and the sound makes Dean’s cock twitch. “You can’t tell me it’s done already,” Sam says, “so it must be that you miss me. Is that it, Dean? You want to be back here fucking me into the floor?” 

A mental image of that crowds Dean’s brain, until it’s all he can think of. Sam, on his hands and knees, ass in the air, stretched wide and open for Dean, and Dean moving in and out, watching as Sam’s skin gets redder and redder, carpet burn on his knees, bite-marks and bruises all over Sam’s body, the noises Sam makes when he’s getting fucked good and hard, the smell of salt and sweat gliding in beads over slick bodies. 

Dean doesn’t realise his jeans are open and he’s jerking until Sam says, low and rich, “Yeah, Dean, that’s it. Just like that, but harder, faster,” and Dean doesn’t know what’s going on, whether that’s the Sam he’s imagining or the Sam on the other end of the phone, if he’s making up the words or if Sam’s really saying them. “Come on, Dean, _harder_ ,” and it doesn’t matter, because Dean’s breath is stuck and then it’s spiralling and he’s coming, shooting all over his hand, the Impala’s steering wheel, the dash. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, blinks, and the image in his head is gone. 

“Maybe when you get back,” Sam says, “if you’re good.” There’s a pause, and Dean hears a lighter flick, hears something start to bubble. “Try not to get yourself killed,” Sam says dryly, and hangs up.

\--

John doesn’t say anything when Dean finally knocks on the motel room door in Missouri, circles under his eyes and his shoulders slumping, just opens the door and gives his son a one-armed hug. Over John’s shoulder, Dean sees Caleb sitting at the table, sharpening up a knife. 

Caleb gives Dean a nod, then stands up, stretches, and says, “Gonna run down to that hardware store we saw, John, ‘nd see if I can’t scare me up a new whetstone.” 

Dean knows it’s to give them space, time to talk about family stuff, things unrelated to the hunt, and he appreciates it, smiles thinly as Caleb disappears out the door and shuts it behind him. 

John sits on the edge of the bed, looks up at Dean, and asks, “What happened, Dean?” 

“You don’t want to know,” Dean replies, striding over to the little coffee pot, pouring himself one of those motel-sized Styrofoam cups and downing it with a wince; tastes like shit. He hasn’t looked at John, and either that, or the way Dean’s holding his shoulders, or the way Dean sounds, means John merely hums, looking at Dean, the weight of his gaze burning holes in Dean’s shoulder. 

“He’s alive,” John half-asks, half-says. 

Dean thinks of Sam’s dead eyes, Sam covered in cuts and bruises, Sam lying beneath him, not moving, the ‘x’ on Sam’s arm, and wonders if that’s any way to live. “Yeah,” he says, and meets his father’s eyes. 

John nearly recoils, says, “Dean? What is it?” and Dean feels a sharp pang of bitterness. John’s faced down demons from the seventh level of Hell without a second thought, gone after a pack of werewolves led by a former friend, jumped into a river after a siren with nothing but a knife held between his teeth, and yet the way Dean looks, because of _Sam_ , makes him flinch. 

“I’m going back there, once this is done,” Dean says, not a question, not a request. 

John’s eyes narrow, and he says, “Dean, if Sam’s in trouble,” letting the sentence trail off. Dean can’t help the laugh, the way he sounds, as he pours another cup of coffee. “Dean, if your brother’s in _trouble_ ,” and he sounds as if he’s willing to call this whole thing off and go after Sam right now. 

“He’ll be fine.” 

“You swear?” John asks, fierce. 

Dean turns around, can’t help glaring as he spits out, “You don’t believe me? Wanna go see Sam, see what he’s doing these days, _fine_ , but don’t say I didn’t try and warn you.” 

John studies that, as if the answers are etched on Dean’s face in between the worry lines on Dean’s forehead and the crinkles at the edges of his eyes, carved in by aches that Dean’s glad his father doesn’t understand.

“Why did you want him here, anyway?” Dean asks, calming himself or trying to. “It’s not like he’d be any good after three years of not hunting.” 

John just shakes his head, and then John’s phone rings, a contact from Iowa, and the conversation is done, neither of them getting answers to their questions. 

\--

The demon’s there, just like John said it would be, going after another child in its crib. The parents, though, know the truth about what’s out there, and they let John trace out a Devil’s Trap on the ceiling around the crib, let the three men hide in the house and wait. When they smell sulfur, John starts reading a Sumerian binding ritual out of an old grimoire, Caleb shoots a runed bullet out of a gun that Dean’s never seen before, and a few splashes of holy water later, the baby’s gurgling in the crib and the demon’s gone. 

Gone, just like that, after twenty five years, and it feels so anticlimactic as Dean stands there, empty bottle in hand, staring at a slightly charred circle of carpet, the only evidence of the demon left, that and the sense that something wasn't right, that the demon expected someone else instead of Dean when it saw him.

John rests a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and when Dean looks up at his father, John’s smiling. “We got it,” he murmurs, squeezes Dean’s shoulder. John laughs, almost in disbelief, and says it again. “We got the son of a bitch.” 

The baby’s parents are laughing, Caleb’s letting out whoop after holler after shriek of triumph, and John’s eyes are gleaming. 

Dean looks again at the floor, that piece of carpet, and then turns, feels his pulse beat, heavy and sluggish. He makes it to the top of the stairs before John calls out after him. 

“Dean,” John says, earnest and low, looks as if he’s torn between celebration and worry. “I’ll come with you, if you want. To tell him.” 

“It’d be better if you didn’t,” Dean says, and leaves the house. 

\--

_“Wanna hear you,” Dean murmurs, leaning and biting Sam’s shoulder, rolling his hips again, burying himself deeper into his brother. “Wanna hear you beg, make you scream.”_

_Sam’s shaking underneath him, all of his muscles tight and trembling, fluttering under Dean’s lips, Dean’s hands. His hands, pressed against the wall, slip, and Dean smacks him, open palm to Sam’s hip, surprising a yelp out of Sam’s mouth that sounds just as natural as the groans had a moment before._

_“Told you not to move them,” Dean says, smacks Sam again, mouths the skin of Sam’s back when Sam tilts his head back and moans. He tastes like salt and limes, bitter and layers of tang that burst in Dean’s mouth, a smoother drink than tequila, richer and deeper._

_When Dean’s teeth bite down, dig in and break skin, Sam keens, shakes again, and starts to plead, broken words strung together that don’t make sense but sound like music to Dean’s ears._

_“…please, Dean, need you, please, fuck me, fuck me hard,_ please _,” over and over again, bound between high keening noises and shallow breaths._

 _“Mine,” Dean growls, hands gripping Sam’s hips, pulling his ass back so Dean can pound harder. “You’re_ my _little whore, aren’t you, Sam? All mine.”_

 _Sam falls apart underneath him, comes with Dean’s name on his lips, and even with Sam’s muscles clenching and relaxing around him, even with the sudden sharp smell of come scenting the air, Dean says, “Tell me, Sam._ Tell me _.”_

_It’s not until Sam says it, a little, choked statement, “Yours, Dean,” that Dean comes, spilling hot and damp inside of his brother._

\--

Dean’s in Kansas when he can’t take it anymore, three days without his brother and he feels like he _needs_ to have Sam there, to hear his voice or press his hand against Sam’s chest, feel his brother’s heartbeat. He presses the speed-dial for the bar, Frankie answers, and Dean asks for Sam. 

“He’s busy,” Frankie says. There’s a pause, and then Frankie says, sounding a little like Sam does now, all sly smoothness, “I could put you on the speakerphone.” 

Taken aback by the tone, Dean only pauses for a second before he says, “Yeah. Put me on speakerphone.” 

There’s a tinny laugh over the connection, then a moment of static-filled silence, then sounds that Dean doesn’t recognise but doesn’t interrupt, voice stolen. 

A thwack, sharp and cracking, followed by a noise halfway between pain and pleasure. Two more strikes, and then a murmured, “More, c’mon, know you have more.” 

Dean nearly swerves off the road as he realises. A belt, whip, something, and the sound it makes hitting a body. Hitting _Sam_ , and Dean remembers the manacles on the wall, the number of drawers on that dresser, and how Sam lingered over one but never opened it. 

“Sam,” he whispers, but either the call’s muted so they can’t hear him, or the cracks of the whip hitting Sam over and over again drown him out. It goes on for so long that he has to pull over, has to close his eyes and rest his forehead on the steering wheel, and he holds his breath when there’s silence. 

A hiss, and then a twinned pair of sighs, and the unmistakable sounds of two people having sex, and Dean hangs up, unable to keep listening. 

He’s hard. 

He drives a little faster. 

\--

Dean stops for sleep in Springfield, Colorado. He’s been lying in bed for an hour now, tossing and turning, can’t help thinking of Sam, feels like his skin is too tight, too hot. Finally, Dean reaches for the phone on the nightstand and calls the bar again. It’s late, he’s not expecting an answer, but someone picks up. 

“We’re closed, Dean.” 

“How the fuck did you know it was me?” Dean asks, momentarily freaked, because that’s just not natural, but then Sam says something about caller ID and stable phone numbers, and Dean learns how to breathe again. 

“Is it done?” Sam finally asks, and Dean can almost hear the wince in his brother’s voice as it sounds like Sam’s moving. “Because if this is just a booty call, let’s get it over with so I can get to bed, all right?” 

Dean rolls his eyes at the ceiling, but merely hearing Sam’s voice, Sam’s breathing, calms him, settles something inside of him and makes something else wake up. He shifts, hisses when the scratchy motel sheet moves against his cock. “It’s done,” he says. “The demon’s gone. I’m on my way back there.”

Sam laughs and something inside of that sound _moves_. 

Dean sits up, but his blood’s boiling and he’s hard. His head thunks back against the headboard, and a murmured, “Oh, fuck,” escapes his lips. 

“Like I said, Dean: when you get back. A celebratory fuck, since you survived,” Sam says. “I won’t even charge you for it.” 

“Too fucking kind,” Dean mutters, trying to ignore the pressing need to jerk off, to find someone and fuck them, the need for Sam, Sam’s mouth or ass, it doesn’t matter which. 

Sam laughs into the phone, and it’s like the sensation of air ghosts over Dean’s cock; he shivers, feeling it. “D’you like that, Dean?” Sam asks. “Being able to call me, schedule a fuck, know that I’m yours again and can’t say no? C’mon, touch yourself. Wanna hear it.” 

Dean shivers again, and no matter how much he tries to stop himself, his free hand goes down, circles his dick, starts to jerk. “Sam,” he says, and when his thumb sweeps across the slit, he arches, headboard banging once against the wall. 

“There it is,” Sam says, gently, coaxing. “Come on, Dean, do it again. I want to hear you, and then I want to hear you come. You can do it.” 

He can’t stop, urged on by Sam’s words, low and smoky, fading into a background of noise as Dean jerks, arching, legs spreading under the sheet, eyes closed. It’s almost like someone else’s hand is on his dick, and Dean can’t help it, gives in to the sensation, giving Sam what his brother asked for, noise first, and then his orgasm a few minutes of stretched-out agony later. 

“Sam,” he says, once he’s caught his breath. “Sam, I.” 

“I have clients the next two nights, so take your time.” 

This time, Dean flings his phone at the wall when Sam hangs up. 

\--

Dean tries, he really does, but the next night, after stopping a couple hours down the road to deal with an infestation of canotila, he calls the bar again. 

Frankie answers, says, “You need to stop calling Sam,” like it’s that easy, like Dean can just _stop_ now that he’s found his brother again. “He hasn’t said it bothers him yet, but the second it does, I’m getting a restraining order.” 

“He gets a kick out of it,” Dean says, tired and sore, “and so do you. If you’re done, can you forward me on?” 

“Sam’s entertaining clients,” Frankie says after a minute. “He’s not here and he won’t answer his phone. You’ll get voicemail.” 

Dean says that’s all right, and when Frankie transfers him, the phone rings three times before Sam’s message picks up.

“ _This is Sam. Leave a message._ ” 

It’s brusque, to the point, and yet somehow Sam’s infused sex and anticipation into those six words, enough to make Dean’s cock pay attention, enough to make Dean groan as he shifts and pulls on already-aching muscles. 

At the beep, he says, “Sam, this is Dean. Listen, I just. Hey. You have clients, but you aren’t at the bar? Are you okay?” and he suddenly feels stupid, because nothing about what Sam’s doing these days is remotely okay. “Never mind. I just wanted you to know that I’m on my way. I’ll be there in two days. During the day. I’m not sure if the bar’s,” he says, and then gets cut off by the beep. 

Dean stares at his phone, and says, words echoing in the silent room, “Even when you’re not there, you still find a way to hang up on me, huh? Bitch.” 

He takes a shower, as hot as his skin can stand it, and when he’s turned, letting the water pound his back, he closes his eyes, inhaling the steam. A deep breath, and Dean’s dizzy, puts one hand on the wall to steady himself, and when he opens his eyes, blinking rapidly, as if that will stop the room from spinning, he swears he hears Sam in the motel room, beyond the bathroom door. 

The words don’t make sense, but he can’t help it, can’t help letting one hand drift down and circle his dick, tug once, long and slow. “ _Like that, Dean_ ,” he can almost hear, as if Sam’s there, right outside the shower curtain, but when Dean pulls it back, it’s just him. 

Dean shakes his head, turns the shower off and dries himself cursorily before collapsing into bed stark naked and falling straight to sleep. 

\--

Dean wakes up, heart racing and sheets, skin damp. He shifts, looks down at the wet spot, then at his cock, before shaking his head. He takes another shower, this one warm but not as hot as the one last night, and as the water works out the kinks in his muscles, he jerks off. Dean tries not to think of Sam, tries to think of Cassie, or that one waitress in Missouri, or the time a guy went down on him in a club outside of New York City, but it all comes back to Sam. 

He imagines the feel of Cassie’s skin under him, and remembers the way Sam writhed and panted, skin damp and sliding over Dean’s. He imagines waitress after waitress, soft curves and bodies shorter, more forgiving, than his own, but he thinks of Sam years ago, when they started fucking, and how good it felt to fuck someone the same height, with the same unyielding intensity. 

Dean tries to dredge up every memory of every cock he’s sucked, every dick he’s had in his ass, every ass _he’s_ been in, but it all comes back to Sam, Sam on his knees, Sam riding him, Sam fucking himself on Dean’s fingers, Sam’s tongue sliding in and out of him, and when Dean comes, it’s with his brother’s name on his lips. 

The water rinses away every trace of come down the drain, and Dean shuts the shower off when he’s clean, stands dripping wet in front of the small, steamed-over mirror, and wonders just how badly he’s fucked over. The face staring back at him doesn’t answer; Dean hadn’t been expecting one, but he can’t keep looking at himself, can’t stand to look, and his fist is flying into the mirror before he registers movement. It stings, small pieces of glass hooked in his skin, blood welling up from the cuts, but it’s not enough to cut through the haze driving Dean back to Sam, that uncontrollable urge to get back to Sam _now_. 

Dean cleans his hand up, dresses, and leaves the mess in the bathroom like it is. 

\--

_“Hello?” Dean says, having finally found his phone and figured out how to open it. He hates waking up with a painkiller hangover, the way it makes his mind fuzzy and warps every command sent from his brain to the rest of his body, but he’s found the phone and stopped the ringing, and that’s the most important thing._

_“Hey, Dean.”_

_Dean’s eyes fly open and he winces at the light flooding the room, east-facing window and no one closed the blinds last night, “Shit. Sam? What time ‘s it?”_

_“Just after six,” Sam says, and then adds, “Your time.”_

_Dean sits up, heart stopped, and he looks around the room. Sam’s bed, the one neither of them have slept in for weeks, is made, pristine the way their father likes it. The folded up pile of clean laundry is gone, as are the last three books Sam’s been reading, Sam’s knife-kit, and what looks like one of the guns._

_It’s a prank. It has to be._

_“Where are you?” he asks, heart in his throat, stomach not too far behind, because Sam’s never done this before and it’s not funny, not in the slightest bit._

_“Not there,” Sam replies, and his voice sounds blank, empty._

_Dean shakes his head, stands up, unsteady, and wobbles out of the bedroom, down to the kitchen and living room. “Sam, s’not funny. Come on, where are you? And what are you doing up so early?” Not in the kitchen, though an empty box of knock-off granola bars is lying side-down on the rackety table._

_“I just wanted to let you know that I’m not coming back.”_

_Dean trips over a chair, hears muttered cursing coming from the next room as John wakes up at the noise._

_“I left last night, once you passed out, and I’m not coming back. Tell Dad whatever you want. I.” A long pause, as if Sam’s struggling to say something or to hold something back, and then a repeated, “Tell Dad whatever, I don’t care.”_

_The dial tone, and Dean doesn’t realise he’s sitting on the floor, staring at that empty box, until John’s shaking his shoulders._

_“Dean! Snap out of it, come on,” and John’s right there, in front of him, looks worried and upset, especially when Dean just looks at him, unable to feel anything but numb and cobwebbed. “What is it?”_

_Dean shakes his head, blinks and focuses on his father, and says, “Sam’s gone. He’s not coming back.”_

_He should feel gratified by how quickly John pales, how John searches his eyes and then shakes his head in denial, leaves and starts searching the house._

_He should, but he doesn’t._


	3. Chapter 3

It’s noon when Dean pulls up in front of the bar. It’s a no-parking zone, but there’s an alley right next to it, and that’s where he parks the Impala, blocks in one of those foreign imports that gets zillions of miles to every half-gallon and looks vaguely ridiculous doing it. 

The door’s open but the bar’s empty, and Frankie’s behind the counter, writing what looks like an order for more liquor when Dean gets closer. 

Frankie grins up at him, fox-smile under snake-eyes, watching Dean for any sign of weakness, which is a waste of time because they both know that him being here, that’s all the weakness anyone will ever need to exploit. 

“He got your message,” Frankie says, looking back down at his order, as if Dean isn’t worth his attention. 

Any other bar, any other city, Dean would challenge that, _make_ Frankie notice him, but here, now, so close to Sam that Dean’s blood is practically humming in anticipation, he just says, “Is he upstairs?” 

Frankie chews on the end of a pen, adds another line of writing to the order, and when Dean’s almost ready to forget this and just go up, Frankie says, “The other room. Knock first, he gets tetchy.” 

Dean raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t waste time standing around, not when Sam’s upstairs. This time, he takes the steps two at a time, and quickly finds himself in front of the other door, the one marked ‘Private: Personal,’ the one Sam said was his own room. He lifts a hand, pauses, then knocks once, twice, and waits. 

“It’s open,” Sam calls out from inside, and Dean touches the doorknob, feeling the light charge of static electricity as he turns it, opens the door. He walks in, closes the door behind him, and stares, taking in the room Sam calls his own. 

The room’s small but clean, almost immaculate. A futon doubles as a bed, pushed against one corner, and there’s a small closet, door closed, next to it. Sam’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, next to a low coffee table, covered by a piece of blue fabric that’s so shimmery it looks black. Still, the fabric doesn’t hit the floor, and Dean can see the very bottom edges of books, old books, hidden underneath. 

Dean takes another step inside and stops as the smell hits him, sage, lavender, and something else, something he doesn’t recognise until he looks at his brother, Sam’s glazed-over, empty eyes, and says, “What, did you _just_ shoot up?” 

Sam smiles, a predatory look, and Dean crosses the room and sits on the futon, legs splayed apart, trying to pretend as if he owns the room and failing miserably. Dean looks around again, notes the prints on the wall, abstract splotches of paint that don’t mean anything to him, the thin carpet under his feet, cheap but clean, and the lack of anything that looks like it might be there for fun, something related to an interest or a hobby. 

“Pretty boring,” Dean says, aiming for casual, and meets his brother’s eyes, biting back a wince at the look they hold. 

“It’s enough,” Sam says, and moves slightly, leans back on the floor. Dean’s eyes are drawn to a thin strip of skin visible between a tight t-shirt and the pair of stonewashed jeans that Sam’s wearing before they flick upwards, take in that ‘x’ on Sam’s arm. 

It still kills him, the idea that Sam’s an addict, that Sam would’ve rather done that than ever called his family, and before he can stop himself, he asks, “Why’d you leave?” 

“Why did I leave, or why did I leave like that?” Sam asks, and stands up, rising upwards like a sleek cat, all light and grace and free-flowing angles. Dean’s eyes follow, mesmerised, track Sam’s movements as Sam walks to the door and locks it, walks back and sits on the other end of the futon, giving off enough warmth that Dean can feel it. 

“The first,” Dean says, then adds, “Both, I guess? Sam, you left in the middle of the night and you called. Why’d you call?” 

Sam laughs, sharp cutting noise, and says, “If I hadn’t said anything, you and Dad would’ve assumed something came to get me and spirited me away. You wouldn’t have stopped looking until you found me, no matter how well I hid my tracks. It was easier to call,” and Dean can’t believe his brother just said that. 

“It was _easier_?” Dean asks, shocked. “To leave without telling us, to call me, six hours later, and just say, ‘Oh, by the way, I’m not coming back?’ Fuck that, Sam, there’s more to it than that.” 

“You think so highly of me,” Sam murmurs, and leans over, trails one finger down Dean’s cheek, across the line of Dean’s jaw, around the curve of his chin. “Foolish to think so highly of a whore, Dean. We say whatever we get paid to say.” 

Sam’s body follows his finger, and before Dean knows which way is up, Sam’s sitting on his lap, curled around Dean, feet kicked off to one side and one arm behind Dean’s shoulders. The other’s skittering across Dean’s chest, and when sharp fingernails catch on a nipple, Dean hisses, lifts his arms and holds Sam closer, tighter. 

Sam sighs, scoots back far enough to lean his head onto Dean’s shoulder, and when he talks, his breath ghosts over Dean’s ear, sinks into the skin behind Dean’s earlobe. 

“I left because I couldn’t stay,” he murmurs, and while Dean’s trying to listen as hard as he can, because, God, he’s finally getting some answers, one hand’s rubbing Sam’s knee, moving up higher on Sam’s leg as if it’s drawn to Sam’s cock as much as the rest of him is screaming to fuck Sam, being this close to him. 

“I left in the middle of the night because I never slept well after hunts and because both of you did. I was quiet, but it wouldn’t have mattered if I hadn’t been, not with you high on painkillers and Dad passed out. I hitched a ride, and when they dropped me off, I stole a car, and when I ran out of gas, I called you, and when I was off the phone, I blew a trucker behind a seedy little sex shop on the side of the road in exchange for five hundred miles of interstate.”

Dean takes a moment to react to that, then his fingers are digging into Sam’s jeans, Sam’s legs. “You,” he says, can’t force out any more words. 

Sam laughs, a little puff of air against Dean’s neck. “He told me I was good,” Sam says. “Said that whoever trained me knew what he was doing, and asked if I was running away from my daddy. He was a twisted bastard, but he kept his side of the bargain.” 

The hand around Sam’s waist shapes into a claw without Dean thinking about it, not until Sam whimpers, shifting against him, cock a clear line under Sam’s jeans. “Sorry,” Dean says, loosening his hold. 

“No need to apologise,” Sam replies, and shifts, straddling Dean, teeth nipping at Dean’s jaw, tongue tracing out the map-pattern of freckles on Dean’s cheeks. He grinds down, and Dean arches up. As Dean’s mind breaks into fractals of Sam and sensation, Sam keeps talking, mouth carving furrows of lips and tongue and teeth on to Dean’s face and neck, mouthing Dean’s shoulders through Dean’s shirts, between words. 

“I left because I couldn’t stay. Watching you kill yourself to protect me, watching Dad kill anything he had to, everything he could, to get answers that never came. I couldn’t do it, Dean, not a day longer, and I took my chance when it came.”

Dean blinks, lets one hand rest on the curve of Sam’s ass, bumping and grinding against him, the other curled and tucked in the waistband of Sam’s jeans. It’s easier to ignore the first reason for now, so Dean says, “What do you mean, watching Dad kill for answers?” 

Sam laughs, and this time the sound is mocking, insulting even, but Dean doesn’t take it back, merely asks again. 

“Oh, Dean,” Sam says, licking a long, wet stripe up Dean’s jaw, from chin to eyebrow. “So innocent, such the perfect soldier.” His hands are warm, almost burning, as they climb up under Dean’s shirt, against his chest, spreading fire everywhere they touch. “You never wondered, did you. Never put it together, where we were, what Dad was doing all the time when he wasn’t dragging us hunting in the middle of night, taking us out of school halfway through the year.” 

“What are you talking about?” Dean asks, and Sam sucks Dean’s neck. The vibration of Sam’s laugh makes Dean’s toes curl in his boots. 

\--

_“You’re not leaving,” John says, and though Dean’s relieved his father’s taken such a strong stand on the issue, he knows that look on Sam’s face, what it means._

_“If I ever wanted to?” Sam asks, pressing the issue. “If I ever did?”_

_John just_ stares _at him, and replies, “Don’t come back.”_

_It’s a threat and a promise both, that Sam better understand what John’s saying and better not run away without good reason and without expecting hell when he gets sick of it and comes back. From the terse nod Sam gives their father, Dean thinks Sam does._

_Sam leaves the room and it’s like the tension in the kitchen has halved just like that, even though John’s sitting down now, collapsed into a chair like his knees aren’t strong enough to keep him standing, like Dean’s not even there, letting Dean see this moment of pure and deep private grief._

_“Dad?” Dean whispers, because he has no idea what just happened, whether he should stay here or go after Sam, throttle his brother for even thinking of leaving._

_John shakes his head, cradles his face in his palms, elbows on the table, and Dean sees the glint of light against his father’s dog tags, against the ring on his left hand. He thinks, in that moment, that John’s never looked more like a soldier, forgotten by the people he’s sworn to protect and abandoned by the very family that’s supposed to love him._

_“_ Dad _?”_

_“Don’t leave him alone, Dean. Don’t leave him alone, and whatever you do, keep him safe.” John takes a ragged breath, and shakes his head again. “God’s sake,” he says, low and pleading, “whatever it takes, Dean. Keep him safe, whatever you have to do.”_

_Dean’s heard that all his life, doesn’t know why hearing it now makes him shiver, puts fear into his spine and speed into his feet, sends him almost running after Sam, his little brother, his lover._

\--

Dean’s come in his jeans, just from the feeling of Sam’s hands on his chest, the smoke-pressure of Sam’s breath against his neck, the weight of Sam straddling his lap. Sam’s laughing, nose tucked in at the junction of Dean’s neck and shoulder, and Dean doesn’t feel anything except bruised. 

There’s a knock on the door, and Sam lifts up slowly, blinks at the door, and the look on his face, thinly-veiled patience overlying anger, closely held, brings Dean down from the euphoria of his orgasm faster than anything else. 

“What,” Sam says, loud enough for the sound to carry echoes of threats, dark and dangerous, and Dean’s supernatural radar, honed after a lifetime of hunting, is going crazy. If this is what Frankie meant by Sam being tetchy, Dean would hate to see his brother honestly pissed off, because the drugs, the whoring, that’s nothing compared to the way Sam looks and sounds now. 

“Sam,” he says, quietly, but Sam’s hand on his chest curls, and his nails dig into Dean’s skin. Dean gets the hint, quiets. 

There’s a pause from the person outside the door, maybe a shuffle of feet, and when Frankie speaks, Dean’s honestly surprised, because it sounds like he’s hesitant, like he’s wary. 

“Sam? I know you have company, but you’re expected at O’Dell’s house in an hour and a half, and they’ve said traffic’s backed up. I. I thought you might like to know. Is there anything you need me to do?” 

Sam tilts his head, lets his eyelids droop half-closed, and he pushes off of Dean, walks to the closet, opens the door and studies what’s inside. “Dean’ll drive me,” he calls out. 

Dean’s head snaps to Sam at the same time Frankie says, “Are you sure? I can call a cab, or Liam would come to get you.” 

“I’m sure,” Sam says, and looks at Dean over his shoulder, says, “Isn’t that right, Dean?” 

\--

Dean watches as Sam changes, shucking his clothes and leaving them in a tidy pile on the futon, completely self-confident in his nudity, like he feels safe, almost relieved at being naked, unfettered by clothes. That impression only sinks further into Dean’s awareness as Sam dresses, sliding into tight and supple black leather trousers, a dark red long-sleeved shirt that hugs his skin, and adds makeup, just a hint of eyeliner, something to make his cheeks red. 

When Sam turns back to Dean, lifts an eyebrow and asks, “Well?” it’s like Dean’s looking at that reflection of Sam again. Sam doesn’t look like Sam, decked out like this, and yet. And yet, it’s the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever seen, more dark and tempting than he could ever imagine his brother looking. 

Dean’s skin rushes with goosebumps as chills chase themselves up and down his spine, and he stands self-consciously, licks his lips and adjusts his trousers, grimacing at the wet spot. That makes Sam smirk, and he runs a tongue along his teeth, looking for all the world like a cat studying its prey before throwing another pair of jeans at Dean. 

“Later,” Sam murmurs, running a hand down his chest, stomach, one hip, as if showing what’s on offer. “If you behave yourself, you can fuck me when we get back.” He turns serious then, says, “If you want to go in the house, fine, but you can’t interfere with anything that’s going to happen.” 

Not, ‘you won’t,’ but ‘you can’t,’ and though Sam’s always been the scholar, the logical one, Dean thinks there’s something telling in that. 

Regardless, he nods, says, “All right,” changes quickly, and leads Sam down to the Impala. 

There’s something almost pathetic about the way Frankie looks at Sam, but when the manager turns to Dean, his look of casual disdain has returned tenfold. Dean shrugs it off, takes Sam outside, and has to stop himself from opening the door for Sam, as if this is a date. It’s not, it’s a business arrangement, but Sam looks so sinful leaning against the car door, looks like he and the Impala were moulded out of the same leather when he’s inside. For the first time, Dean doesn’t feel like his car is _his_ , feels like the car that matches someone else better, feels like a damned chauffeur—and that’s exactly what he is. 

\--

“When did you and this O’Dell guy start,” Dean begins to ask, eyes focused on the road, on following Sam’s directions, knuckles white on the steering wheel. 

He feels more than sees Sam look at him, study him, before Sam says, “Connor needed a waiter for one of his parties. He had his secretary call Frankie up and Frankie sent me over. Connor liked me, and when I started fucking the clients instead of serving them drinks, he put in a standing order for me.” 

Dean doesn’t say anything to that, just follows Sam’s directions, and they end up in front of a row of townhouses on a hill, in what looks like a respectable neighbourhood. Dean parks the car, looks at the house they’re in front of, and asks, “Are you sure this is the right place?” 

Sam smiles, this enigmatic little quirk of lips, as he gets out of the car, and when Dean’s out as well, following him up the walk, Sam says, “Where’s the best place to hide?” 

Remembering the same lesson Sam’s referencing, one of the first their father taught them, Dean murmurs, “In plain sight,” and gives the house a narrow look, studying the shutters, the blinds and thick curtains, the pot of flowers on the small porch step. 

Sam pushes the doorbell, and Dean can hear it echo inside the house, as if it’s in a much larger room than what the outside dimensions of the townhouse might suggest. Dean gives the row another look, frowns as he realises, “Sam? None of the other doors, they don’t look used.” 

“Connor owns the entire block,” Sam says. “Outside, they’re still all separate, and people do come in and out sometimes, but you can get from one end to the other inside.” 

Dean opens his mouth, about to ask why anyone would need that much room, or how wealthy this O’Dell character is, but the door swings open, and a man, young thirties maybe, raises a polished eyebrow. 

“Oh, cut the shit, Liam,” Sam says, cracking the first honest grin Dean’s seen on his brother’s lips, and the man smiles back. “This is Dean. He’s off-limits. Security; you know what Frankie’s been like lately.” 

The man, Liam, drops the smile, and Dean sees an edge of worry in Liam’s eyes as he says, “With good reason, pet.” Liam’s eyes flick to Dean, take in Dean’s face and body quickly, cataloguing for memory, and asks, “Security? Frankie’s hiring them a bit prettier these days.” He nods, adds, “M’name’s Liam, and I’m Connor’s secretary,” and when Dean shakes Liam’s hand, he’s pleasantly surprised to find that Liam’s got a good, strong grip.

Sam grins, says, “Dean’s mine, not Frankie’s,” and something in Dean’s body flares at the casual possession, dances higher and hotter when Liam gives Dean an interested look. 

“Must be special, Dean,” Liam says. “Sam’s not the kind to keep anyone else. Hm. At any rate, Connor’s waiting. Come in, and I’ll get you ready.” 

\--

Sam was right about the house—they pass a doorway and when Dean looks through, his gaze travels down an art gallery half as long as the block. He raises an eyebrow, spotting the type of paintings usually collected in planners and calendars hanging casually on the wall. 

“Connor likes to collect pretty things, no matter the cost or how dangerous the acquisition,” Liam says. Sam’s further down the hallway, doesn’t give any sign he’s listening, walking what looks a familiar path, and Dean thinks that’s the reason Liam drops his voice and adds, sounded at once worried and admiring, “Sam’s walking a fine line with Connor, but he’s doing it well. Connor’s cultivated a special interest in Sam but one of these days, he’ll find that, no matter how much he pays, Sam’s not exactly tame.” 

Dean slides that little nugget of information in with the others he’s gleaned about this new Sam, and finds he doesn’t care for the greater picture that’s being painted inch by inch. Still, when Sam stops in front of a door and looks back down at the hallway for Liam, he also looks at Dean. There’s something in Sam’s eyes, some message, something that Dean doesn’t understand. 

Sam rolls his eyes and follows Liam in to the room once Liam unlocks it, and Dean doesn’t hesitate before he goes inside as well. 

It’s dark, his eyes take a few seconds to adjust, and if he thought he’d seen it all before, he’s obviously wrong. Sam and Liam don’t pause, though, to study the things, _toys_ , lining the walls, the chains and whips on one side, the costumes on the other side, the vials and jars of what looks like makeup, paint, oils, covering a long table that stretches down the middle of the small octagonal room. 

Sam’s leather trousers stay on, as does the shirt, but Liam rolls the sleeves up a little, revealing Sam’s wrists. He looks the shirt over, picks out a skein of ribbon halfway in colour between the black trousers and the red shirt, and cuts off two long pieces and one even longer. The two long ones get tied, one each on each of Sam’s wrists, tight enough to stop Sam from bending his wrists but loose enough so that the blood still flows. The knot is elegant, and the spare pieces hang down from Sam’s wrists, at his sides, fluttering in a breeze that Dean can’t feel. 

He can guess where the third goes, and isn’t at all surprised to see Liam tie it around Sam’s neck, a knot and a bow in the front, under Sam’s chin. 

“Too tight?” Liam asks, and Sam shakes his head, so he finishes it off, hands lingering on Sam’s skin, and lets the extra ribbon drape and curl over Sam’s chest. 

A few minutes later, with some gel on his hair to loosen the curls and oil on his skin to make him glow, Liam declares Sam ready, and picks out two whips, of a longer, thinner leather that matches Sam’s trousers. Sam rolls his eyes, but looks back at Dean and says, “You can’t interfere,” like he’s reminding Dean and giving him a chance to back out now, both at the same time. 

Dean nods, throat too dry to produce words, so Sam nods at Liam, takes a deep breath, and when the door on the other side of the room is open, Sam starts walking, hips sashaying from side to side, ribbons fluttering in the breeze, head tilted coquettishly. Watching it from behind, Dean’s mesmerised all over again, and he thinks that Liam, standing next to him and leaning against the door, is as well. 

He slowly tears his eyes away from Sam long enough to look around the room. Longer than it is wide, panelled in dark wood, a matching wood floor that glows with mirrors of candle-flames from candelabras and stands dotted around the room. Carvings dot the juncture of ceiling and wall, and they look a little like gargoyles but not quite. 

“ _Eyes Wide Shut?_ ” Dean murmurs, seeing one man, wearing jeans and a black button-down, in the middle of the room. “Needs more people, though.”

Liam snorts, then nods in their direction and says, “Kubrick could never have filmed this. You’re either in for a treat or a wholly torturous evening, pet.” 

Sam walks towards the circle, in that achingly slow pace, twirling the handles of the whips in his hands, letting the tips drag behind him and get tangled up in the ribbons around his wrists. He steps lightly in front of the man, and says, “Connor, Connor, Connor. You wanted the pleasure of wielding the whips again? So soon? What’s the occasion?” 

The man, Connor, Dean guesses, steps forward, until he’s facing Sam, and Sam leans forward and kisses him. Even from this distance, Dean can see tongue, and his skin crawls in revulsion as Sam hands over the whips and gives the man facing him a little mocking nod. 

It starts slow, first just a gentle flick of one whip, just enough to move it so that the end dances around Sam’s ankles, legs. Connor circles around Sam, who stands there, facing away from Dean, hands held out to the sides, those ribbons bouncing in wind-trails. 

The first time one of the whips cracks through the air and curls around Sam, flays open the shirt, Dean stops breathing. The second time, his vision goes blurry, and the third time, he leans against the doorframe, mouth dry, blood pulsing through his veins. 

He doesn’t pass out, doesn’t know how or why, but he must be breathing because his chest hurts, must still be standing because he can see at almost eye-level the way those whips, expertly handled, are tearing off Sam’s shirt stretch of cloth by stretch of cloth. Tantalising, the way Sam’s shirt is floating to the ground around him, the way those whips are leaving long stripes of red across Sam’s back, drawing blood in a few places where the lines have crossed. 

Sam stands there with his head tilted back, and the ribbons fluttering at his sides look like dancing streams of blood. 

\--

_John frowns, and Dean doesn’t understand why. Sam’s stitches came out without any trouble and the skin underneath is whiter than the surrounding areas, courtesy of the bandage, but it’ll heal clean, doesn’t even look like it’ll scar. He says as much, and watches as his father’s lips narrow, press together. Sam looks up at John, eyes too old and knowing, and then stands, brushes Dean off and says something about a shower now that he doesn’t need to worry about keeping the bandage dry._

_Dean watches him go, eyes drawn to the swing of Sam’s hips and the play of muscles in his back as he pads, cat-like and silent, out of sight. When Sam’s turned the corner, after Dean hears the shower turn on, he asks, “Why the look, Dad?” because they all know that the fewer identifying marks they have, the better. The tattoos are bad enough, but scars seem worse, somehow, less a choice and more the reminder of bad decisions, split-second failures._

_“Because that was a hydra-bite,” John says, “and your brother nearly bled out before we got it cleaned and sewn up.” He stops, shakes his head, and goes to the counter, starts running a pot of coffee. “He should have a scar. Both of us would.”_

_There’s something about that, the words or tone, that makes Dean want to ask questions, but then John gets a phone call, ends up leaving. Dean goes to check on Sam in the shower, fucks his brother under a hot spray of water, and the coffee burns._

\--

The whips stir and slow, eventually stop and drift to Connor’s sides. Dean sees them drop, looks at his brother and flinches, stepping back when he sees Sam’s skin torn to shreds, just like the shirt, some of the cloth in pieces on the floor, some still on Sam, clinging to the blood. 

Connor speaks and his voice echoes in the silent room, says, “Remove the rest of the shirt.” Dean watches as Sam does as instructed, calmly pulling cloth away from the already-clotting wounds. He’s perversely glad that Sam came out here high as a kite, because heroin’s a good painkiller and Sam has to be in a ridiculous amount of agony. 

The shirt joins the rest of its missing pieces on the floor, and when Sam’s done, half-naked, standing there in his leather trousers and those dangling ribbons, Connor says, “A surprise tonight.” 

Even from twenty feet away, Dean can see the change in his brother’s stance, can see Sam loosen instead of stiffen, preparing to fight. Dean steps forward, just one step, but heat floods his veins and his knees buckle, a flood of desire more powerful than he’s ever felt before rushing over, through, inside of him. 

Liam grabs his elbow, keeps him upright, and steadies him, murmurs, “He’ll be fine, pet, just you see,” and Dean feels absurdly relieved by the confidence in Liam’s voice.

Connor tosses the whips aside and steps back, unbuttoning his shirt with careful, steady movements, and then tosses it aside, letting it sweep across the floor. Sam laughs, a sound that bounces and echoes around the room, sends chills across Dean’s nerves, plucking dissonant notes and making his teeth ache. Its reminiscent of the time he called Sam to tell him the demon was dead and gone, like there’s something alive in that noise, magic or power, dark and dangerous whatever it is. 

“A surprise,” Sam says, and Dean feels another rush of lust as he watches Sam move, circle Connor like he’s testing prey. “I don’t like surprises, Connor,” and though Dean thinks that Sam murmured that, he heard the words loud and clear. “You should know that by now.” 

Connor smiles, says, “And you should know that I don’t care, Sam,” before he starts chanting in a language Dean doesn’t immediately recognise, takes a small knife out of one pocket and draws it down the centre of his chest.

The ribbons hanging from Sam’s wrists and throat flutter madly in a sudden cyclone that doesn’t touch anything else, and then Dean sees a figure start to coalesce in front of Sam, sees hands form out of smoke and then solidify, holding the ends of those ribbons. 

It’s a woman, Dean thinks, a woman preternaturally beautiful. Candlelight licks the edges of her skin, casts a sheen over hair so light it looks white, makes her skin glow ivory. The difference between her and Sam is so obvious, like looking at opposites, her the picture of thick summer sunlight falling over hay fields, him the image of night and the presence of secrets told behind locked doors. Dean’s eyes flick between the two, as they simply stand there and stare at each other, and then the woman tugs the ribbons and Sam drops to his knees, looks up at her. 

“Samuel,” she murmurs, and her voice sounds low and musical, chimes and bells bouncing around the room. It makes Dean’s ears ring, makes something low in his belly tighten. She reaches down, cups Sam’s cheek with one hand, and smiles at him. 

“ _Síla-na-Gig,_ ” Liam says under his breath, following it up with another phrase Dean doesn’t recognise, but he understands the tone and agrees with whatever curse Liam just uttered. 

“What’s that mean?” he asks. “What you said first, the gig thing. What’s that?” 

Liam swallows, nods his head toward the woman and Sam, still and frozen like some kind of otherworldly tableau, and says, “She is. Irish goddess of lust who has a bit of a problem with anyone like Sam.” 

Dean’s not sure what Liam means by that, ‘like Sam,’ but doesn’t press that issue, asks, “What’s she doing here and if she has a problem with Sam, why does it look like she wants to eat him?” 

“Because that’s how she kills whores,” Liam whispers, watching as the goddess stares at Sam, running fingers over his face. “She fucks them. It kills them, the ecstasy of her presence, and then she cuts them into pieces and eats them, shares their body and blood with her devotees.” Liam pauses, looks over at Connor with unreadable eyes, and adds, “She can only be summoned with the willing blood of a whore. Connor knows that.”

Connor, leaning up against a wall, arms crossed, watching with curious amusement, playing with lives, with Sam’s life, and looking as if he doesn’t care what happens. 

“How long has he been planning this?” Dean asks, and despite the overwhelming, clawing need to stalk to the middle of the room and fuck either one of the figures there, his voice is flat, deadly, because Connor’s been planning to kill his _brother_. 

It takes Liam a moment to reply, but then he says, voice twisted, shadowed, “Long enough for him to have severely miscalculated the lengths Sam will go to in order to protect himself.”

Dean’s hopes that Liam’s right, because Síla’s hand on Sam’s cheek has curved, and her fingernails are digging half-crescent moons into the skin, blooming white, then red, as blood wells to the surface. 

“How do we get rid of her?” Dean asks, and then she’s tilting Sam’s head back, leaning down and pressing her lips against his, and Sam’s just letting her, letting her do whatever she wants. Fire burns Dean’s veins up from the inside, as if his blood’s turned to flames, and he licks his lips, tasting the faint, unmistakable tang of Sam’s come.

Síla stands up, straightens her back, and narrows her eyes when she realises that Sam isn’t saying anything, isn’t responding, is still just kneeling there, looking up at her. “You have an anchor,” she says, and Dean reads triumph in Sam’s eyes, hears Liam make a choked noise next to him. 

“An anchor?” Dean asks in a whisper. 

Liam shakes his head, and doesn’t answer. 

Síla looks around, inhales, and then draws her nails down Sam’s chest, making him arch and part his lips in a breath of pain. When her nails gouge across the tattoo over Sam’s heart, Dean sways on his feet, feels the echo of nails on his skin, and lets out one low whimper as he grabs the doorway for support. 

Liam looks at him, eyes wide, and then Dean feels inhuman eyes on him and turns to see Síla staring at him. Sam growls, menace and threat in the noise, and Síla’s lips turn upwards in a smile.

She looks at Dean, and asks, “You are his anchor? Come here.” 

He’s drawn by her voice, the way she’s looking at him, the curve of her hips and cheeks, and he’s taken three steps by the time Sam’s ripped the ribbons out of Síla’s grip and stood to his feet, blocked Dean’s view of her. 

“You’re _mine_ ,” Sam says, voice threaded with promise, and Dean closes his eyes, sees Sam stretched out underneath him, naked and glowing slick with sweat, feels Sam’s ass tight around his cock, hears Sam whimpering and pleading, begging. 

He opens his eyes, looks at Sam, at the fingernail scratches disappearing from his chest, at the whip marks clotted up and turning white as they heal. “What’s going on?” he asks, and Síla starts laughing. 

“He has not told you?” Síla asks, and Dean thinks she’s faking the shock written on her face as she turns to Sam, now standing at Dean’s side, his arms crossed and smirking. “You never told him, merely _used_ him?” A short, sharp bark of laughter, and she says, “It makes me wonder, Samuel. Who, here, is the whore?” 

A wave of heat swarms over Dean, heat that draws it’s own heat out of him, leaves him short of breath and dizzy and hard, painfully, achingly hard, wanting nothing more than to reach out to Sam, next to him, and force Sam to his knees. Liam, behind them, makes a noise deep in his throat that mixes with the sound of blood pounding through Dean’s ears. 

Dean turns to look at Liam, whose eyes are glazed over and fixed on Sam, teeth biting down on his lower lip and letting out a thin strand of blood. Dean frowns, turns to Sam, and recoils, seeing the tattoo on Sam’s heart, _Ad Libitum_ , flaring a violent red. 

Judging from the expression on Sam’s face, and if looks could kill, Síla would be dead and buried already; as it stands, she might not be too far from it now. She’s a goddess, apparently, but Dean’s never seen his brother look like this before, full of rage and brimming with danger. He’s never seen his brother look like this, but he’s seen demons with this same level of emotion, felt creatures with this same wave of power curling out of Sam. 

“I am,” Sam snarls, stealing the air out of Dean’s lungs. “ _I’m_ the whore. Connor summoned you using my blood. I’m the one who bends over for money, I’m the one touched by demons, I’m the one with the gifts. Dean’s not a whore, he’s _mine_.” 

“But you left him,” Síla says, and reaches out. Her fingers get within an inch of Sam’s mouth and he growls; they dart closer, as if to trace his lips, and he snaps at them, teeth clacking together when she pulls back. “Perhaps, before, he was yours, but now, Samuel? Now, after you have left him and lied to him, after you have claimed him without asking?” 

She shakes her head in faux disappointment, and looks at Dean. “Who is the whore, Dean? Your brother sells himself for money, for drugs, but you, Dean. You will prostitute yourself for your brother whenever he tells you he is ready, will you not? Spread yourself open and bury yourself in him, do whatever it takes, do whatever he tells you, just to be able to fuck him? _Who is the whore?_ ”

Dean’s muscles stiffen, lock, under her gaze, feeling the disapproval stab all too deeply. “I am,” he whispers, and Sam’s hand connects with Dean’s cheek a moment later, open palm, crack echoing in the room. 

Síla smiles and says, “I will let you explain things to him, Samuel. When Dean knows the truth of what you are and who you have become, then we shall see if he remains your anchor.”


	4. Chapter 4

_John exhales deeply, puts one hand on Sam’s knee under the table as Sam bounces impatiently in his seat. “There’s nothing I can say or do to convince you to give me the book,” he says, “is there?”_

_The man across from them, a contact that Dean doesn’t really like, gives John a look out of hooded eyes, and says, “No. There isn’t.”_

_“Why not?” Sam asks, and Dean winces, because their father gave them explicit directions to sit next to him and not say a word. “It won’t do you any good. You’ve already used all of it you can.”_

_The contact raises an eyebrow, looks at Sam, and says, “How did you know that?”_

_Sam’s nine, Sam has a grin that melts the heart of every waitress, checkout lady, and teacher that sees it, and Sam knows something that Dean doesn’t think his father does._

_Sam shrugs, grins at the contact, and says, “Please? We really need it and you don’t, and Dad has the bullets all ready and everything.”_

_Dean looks at his father, sees the way John’s jaw is clenched, notes the way his father isn’t saying anything, and despite everything about this, it’s not the first time that Sam’s popped up and said something that he can’t possibly know._

_It’s also not the first time that the person on the other side is giving Sam that exasperated look, the one that says Sam’s being a pain in the ass but fuck, what a cute kid, and what the hell?_

_There’s nothing unnatural about walking out of a diner with his dad, his little brother, and what they came to this town to get five minutes later, but there’s something unnatural about how it happens. Unnatural, but not unusual, and if Sam’s able to persuade ancient books and extra pieces of pie out of people, it’s good for them all._

\--

Connor brings chairs when Síla orders him to, is content to watch the goddess, Dean, and Sam sit down in a triangle, content to go back to the wall, lean against it, Liam at his side and watching Sam with dark, undecipherable eyes. Dean doesn’t care about those two, except to hope they stay out of this. He’s finally going to get some answers, everything Sam’s been hinting at over the past week, except he doesn’t know where to begin, what questions to ask first. 

Sam leans in the chair, lets his legs fall apart, and Dean forgets what’s going on, watching the dancing trails of candlelight make Sam’s skin gleam in the otherwise dark room, the lines of blood drinking down light as much as the oil and sweat on his skin reflect it. 

“You’ve always healed fast,” Dean says, slow and halting, remembering hunts and training, the way Sam looked all bruised up, the effort it took to scatter his own marks of ownership all over Sam’s body, biting harder than should have been necessary, digging deeper than pleasure and far past the boundaries of pain. “Why? How?” 

“Did you ever wonder why the demon killed Mom over my cradle, in my nursery?” Sam asks, checking his nails, as if it means nothing to him. “Did you ever wonder why us and not someone else?”

Dean gives his brother a look and says, “Of course I did. Dad and I both did,” and trails off when Sam shakes his head. 

“Dad guessed, Dean. Not at first, but later on. The way I could talk people into anything. The way they trusted me, listened to me, opened up to me. The way I heal,” he adds, motioning at his face, the already-disappeared half-moon gouges. 

Dean listens, sits there as he thinks back on all the weird things that seemed to happen around Sam, the weird things that he, that they, all grew used to, counted on. 

“He was always looking for answers,” Sam says, eyes trained on Dean, muscles coiled with tension that breathes preparedness, as if he doesn’t need to see anyone else to know if they’re a threat or not. “He found some, didn’t like what he found out but didn’t see a way around it. He thought I’d be easy prey for a demon, some sort of supernatural homing device. But Dad didn’t find _all_ of the answers. He stopped looking too soon.” 

Síla laughs, a low sound that makes Dean light-headed. “Tell him, Samuel.” 

Sam glares at the goddess, bares his teeth, snarls, and in the dark room, shadows playing on the walls, Sam looks like a cat, one of the sleek creatures that lives in midnight places and kills its prey with a smile on its face, blood staining face and fur. 

“You said you have gifts,” Dean whispers. 

“A little empathy, enough to know how to push people to get what I need,” Sam says, turning his eyes back to Dean. “More attraction, persuasion. The Celts used to call it charm. People notice me, and they end up doing what I want them to.”

Dean blinks, says, “Mind control.”

Sam shakes his head, smirks. “If only it was that easy. People are attracted to me, Dean; it makes being a whore easier. They notice me, I twist it, make them _want_ me.” Dean doesn’t know what to say, must be giving Sam a look that says much the same, because Sam goes on. “The demon picked me because of my gifts, but he changed them, somehow, made them stronger. Mom’s blood sacrifice made them stronger.” 

“When you came home from school,” Dean says slowly, “and asked me to fuck you. When I said yes. You made me.” He’s empty inside, empty and hollow, and looks at Sam when he asks, “You wanted to see if you could do it, didn’t you. Wanted to know if I would, if you had that much power over me. What I felt for you, what I still feel—it isn’t real, is it.” 

Sam looks at Dean, eyes dark and deep, too old and cruel to be completely human, and says, simply, “I knew you’d protect me if you loved me. Dad was looking for ways to help me, exorcise me or something, but he wouldn’t be able to if he knew how much it’d kill you to see me hurt.”

Dean’s world shatters. It sounds like the whipping peals of a goddess’ laughter. 

“She called me your anchor,” Dean asks, voice broken like glass. “What does that mean?” 

“I’ve studied runes, older binding magicks, since I’ve been out here,” Sam says. Dean remembers the first blowjob, in the room above Frankie’s club, Sam’s fingers tracing out patterns on Dean’s hips, the uncontrollable urge to fuck Sam ever since, the odd pull towards Sam, to do whatever Sam wants. “I use them on my clients,” Sam goes on, “to make the experience more pleasurable, to be able to protect myself if I have to.”

Síla shifts in her chair, draws Dean’s attention. She’s smiling, her cheeks painted red, and as she turns to look at Dean, her hair falls over one shoulder, cascading wave of light and music. Dean swallows, mouth dry, and Síla says, “That is how it began, yes. But there is more, is there not, Samuel?” 

Sam glares at her, apparently unmoved by the same display that makes Dean want to fall to his knees and lick every inch of her body, starting with her toes and slowly working his way up. “There was too much power scattered on too many people,” he says. He gestures at the tattoo over his heart and says, “I decided to bind the runes together and trapped them, bound the power I drew from them, in the tattoo ink. It settled in my skin, though, a little too deeply, and the magic fused with my own gifts.” 

“It was a mere accident that made Samuel prettier,” Síla says with an amused smile. “A mere accident and he is one of the most dangerous whores to ever practice the craft. This accident turned him even more into a creature, more of a demon than a human. A work of magic and beauty carved in flesh, aren’t you, Samuel? And that is why your clients come back to you, week after week, ruining themselves just for a touch from you. That is why Connor continues to hunger after you though he knows you are merely toying with him until your patience runs out, why he hoped you would choose him to share your power with. You toyed with him, and all along, you were waiting for someone else.”

Dean stares at his brother, at this warped reflection of the Sam he once knew. His head is spinning, he doesn’t know how to begin to comprehend all he’s hearing, but his mind dredges something up, a look he was given a few days ago. 

“The demon,” he says, feeling his way through the words, that memory. “When it looked at me, it was expecting you, wasn’t it? Is that because of the rune you drew on me?” 

Síla’s eyes narrow as they flick to Sam’s face. 

Sam gives her a lazy grin, eyes cold and calculating, says, “You noticed. I'm so _proud_ of you, big brother. Yes, I drew a rune on you the night you paid for me. It connected us enough so that the demon felt my power on you.” Sam pauses, looks at Síla, and the grin turns deadly as he adds, “A rune of anchoring, to make the anchoring permanent.” 

“Which rune?” Síla asks, and suddenly she sounds as angry as Sam did a few minutes ago. 

“ _Nauthiz_ ,” Sam replies, and Síla shrieks, stands up, stalks away and to Connor, hair trailing out like white fire behind her. 

Liam edges away from Connor, still looking at Sam, and Dean’s far enough away from both of them to see Sam nod, smile with teeth that glitter in the light of Síla’s anger, sees Liam’s answering shrug. 

Connor straightens up as Síla gets closer, drops to his knees, and inhales sharply when she slaps him, leaving a bright red imprint of her hand on his cheek. 

“You did not tell me they were bound,” she hisses. “You have wasted my time, _deargamadán_ , and put me in danger, you, my devotee.” She spits at his feet, levels her eyes on Sam, and glowers before disappearing in a burst of sparks and wind. 

The room’s silent. 

Sam stretches, catlike flex of muscle and limbs, and stands. “I’m going to get cleaned up,” he announces to no one in general, sounding amused but little else, and saunters away, back through the doorway he came in, three sets of eyes watching him. Connor stands up, unsteady, a few wordless minutes later, and leaves through a different door. 

Dean looks at Liam, who finally says, “You don’t know why she left, do you.” It’s not a question, but Dean shakes his head anyway. Liam sighs, pushes off of the wall, sits down where Síla had been perched a few minutes before. 

“I don’t know a thing about runes,” Dean confesses, and adds, quieter, “or about my family.” 

Liam hums, reaches over and pats Dean on the knee. “Sam’s confusing, aye? All sex and secrets, but it’s just for show. He’s built up so many layers of masks that he’s forgotten who he is. There’s something he hasn’t forgotten, though.” 

“What?” Dean asks, tired, starting to feel the numb shock wear away into something like empty agony, the pain of something deep, deep inside him cracking. 

“You,” Liam says. 

Dean laughs, a sound that makes Liam shake his head. 

“No, Dean. The rune Sam mentioned, the way it’s used in the anchoring,” Liam says. “It’s the rune that symbolises need, the deep, intense kind that means a person can’t live without the object of that need.” 

Liam holds up his hand when Dean opens his mouth, waits until Dean’s lips are pressed together before saying, “As an anchor, the way Sam used it, it doesn’t manipulate anything. It only intensifies what a person already feels. And, Dean, it goes both ways. That’s why she couldn’t touch you. Sam bound the two of you together.”

Dean stops breathing, because that’s not right. Sam can’t need him the way he needs Sam, it’s not possible. This kind of need, the way Dean needs Sam like he needs air, it’s not humanly possible, and there’s no way Sam could feel it. He presses a hand against his stomach, suddenly feeling sick, and remembers the tattoo around his belly button, the matching one on Sam’s skin. _Indivisibiliter ac inseparabiliter._

“Sam’s my friend,” Liam says quietly. “He never talks about you and refuses to answer questions about you. His father, yes, but not you, and he won’t ever accept a client who shares your name. You think Sam was just testing his control when he asked you to fuck him, that first time? Dean, he wasn’t. He wanted you the way you want him. Whatever it took, even if it meant damning himself, he wanted you.”

“He left me,” Dean murmurs, looking down at his hands, because Liam’s being too honest, too open, and Dean can’t face that, can’t look that in the eyes right now. “He left and he never apologised, wouldn’t do it differently if he was given the choice.” Dean stops, thinks back to the room, before they left Frankie’s club and came here. 

_I left because I couldn’t stay. Watching you kill yourself to protect me._ Sam didn’t—doesn’t—need Dean’s protection, but it’s more than that. Sam was worried. Sam was trying to protect _Dean_.

“He did it to save me,” Dean breathes, realisation another shock. He shakes his head, rubs his eyes and forehead, swallows back a mouthful of bile. It’s too much, taking all of this in at once: the reason his mother died, John’s mission, the whole complex and fucked up history he and Sam share. 

Sam’s not entirely human. Sam’s been whoring. Sam wants to protect him. Sam’s a drug addict. Sam tied them together. Sam’s been playing around with dark magic. Sam wants him. Sam’s been manipulating other people and taking away their free will. Sam needs him. 

\--

_“It’s not so bad, Sam,” Dean says, looking away from the road for a split-second, long enough to see Sam’s jaw clench and unclench, Sam’s gaze fixed firmly on the window. “Come on, this’ll be your last school.”_

_Sam snorts, looks away, and Dean looks over again, eyes drawn to the play of curls at the nape of Sam’s neck, still damp from the shower._

_Dean pulls out his phone, and when John answers, he says, “I need to get some coffee, Dad. Sam and I’ll catch up with you, okay?”_

_John says it’s all right, tells him to watch out for Sam, and when Dean hangs up, he says, “Dad said to keep an eye on you.” He pauses, pulls the car off the road, into Minnesota trees, and when Sam’s looking at him, the dictionary definition of teenage sullenness, Dean adds, “I think I’d rather keep something else on you. Or in you.”_

_The Impala’s almost too small to fuck in; the front seat definitely is, they’ve experimented with angles and positions for the past three years, but within minutes, Sam’s half-naked, muscles tight as they clench Dean’s cock. Dean’s jerking Sam off, hard and fast, and Sam’s murmuring things, dirty things that Dean thinks no one else would believe Sam capable of knowing, much less saying, and when Dean comes, it’s with a strangled cry that echoes in the car._

_It takes Sam longer to come. It always seems to, lately._

\--

“Told him, did you?” Sam asks, somewhere behind Dean. Dean’s cock stirs, probably always will, hearing his brother’s voice, but he doesn’t move, not until Sam says, “Wish you hadn’t, Liam. He’ll get all sorts of ideas in his head now.” 

Dean gets up, turns, stands there and glares at his brother, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed on his chest, looking glazed enough so that Dean can guess his brother just shot up as well as changing. 

“Why not, Sam?” he asks, voice bitter and mocking. “Don’t want me to know how pathetic I am? How stupid I am?” 

Sam snorts, says, “Because now you think I love you,” and it sounds so disdainful, sneering, that Dean reels. “Connor’s been planning something like this for a while. I had thought he’d just call a Morrigan and be done with it, but I prepared for everything. The only way Síla-na-Gig leaves a whore alone is if the whore’s bound and anchored to a human who loves them. You were convenient, Dean, nothing more.” 

Liam pushes himself out of the chair and moves, standing halfway between them. “Sam,” he breathes, searching Sam’s face as much as Dean wants to, would if he could muster up the willpower. “Sam, pet, that’s not true. It can’t be.” 

Sam laughs, the sound echoing in the room, some aspect of its pitch or timbre causing the candles to shiver, half of the flames to blow out. In the near-darkness, his eyes glow, and Dean wonders how he could have ever missed the fact that his brother isn’t even _human_ anymore.

“Dad knew?” he asks, quiet. 

“Dad knew enough,” Sam says. “Figured things would be interested in me, guessed I might go wrong if I was given enough of a leash. Think he’d be pleased to know he was right?”

Liam’s standing there, shaking his head as he says, “It was an accident, Sam, nothing more, you couldn’t’ve planned for it,” and Dean knows. Like every other revelation, this one catches him off-guard, but no one has to explain it to him. The noise Liam made, the way he watched Sam, the way his fingers slip-glided over Sam’s body in the costume room, familiar, reverent. 

“You helped him with the runes, with binding them, and you were the first one to fuck him,” he says, and Liam’s head turns, slowly. “You gave him the heroin, that first time, to take the pain away from the tattoo sinking in, and then you fucked him. He drew a rune on you and he’s still using it. You and Connor, you’re, but you let Sam rune you.”

Dean stares at Liam, who stares back, and they both jump, startled, when Sam starts a mocking clap. 

“Very good, Dean,” he says, head tilted to one side. “You’ve figured it out. Now, are we done with the heart-to-heart? I’m tired and Frankie’s expecting me back at work.” He yawns, stretches, and Dean’s eyes are drawn to the thin strip of skin visible between the bottom hem of the light blue shirt and the low waist of the stonewashed jeans Sam’s changed into. 

“But it’s a _nauthiz_ rune,” Liam argues, though his tone sounds weak, as if he’s trying to convince himself in the face of Sam’s absolute certainty. 

Sam shrugs, as if to say, _So?_ , and adds to the wordless comment, “All _nauthiz_ means is need, Liam, you know that. Not love, not romance, not anything _happy_. Need is hardly a happy thing. It’s messy and painful and something to be moved past as quickly as possible.” 

Like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline, Dean says, “But you haven’t.” When Sam doesn’t say anything, merely levels that spine-chilling stare at Dean, Dean goes on, “You haven’t moved past it. You still need me, just as much as I need you.” 

“You never needed me,” Sam spits out. “I made you need me. Everything you feel, it’s because I wanted you to,” and he turns, stalks away. 

It’s a cut that goes deeper than any knife might have. 

“He’s lying,” Liam says, after Sam’s gone, the door to the costume room slammed shut and the echoes dissipated. “He _is_.”

Dean stands there, stares at nothing in particular, and eventually says, “Maybe. Whatever.” 

He leaves Liam in the room, walks through the house, and when he gets to the front door, he walks through it, closes it behind him, gets into the Impala, and drives out of San Francisco.

\--

Dean drives north until he hits Oregon and a small town just above Klamath Falls. After getting a motel room, he sleeps for sixteen hours straight, lost in dreams of Sam. Some of them are better than others, some are downright terrifying, and he wakes up, unsure how he’s supposed to feel. He’s hard, gives his dick an angry look for reminding him of Sam now that he’s awake, like the dreams weren’t bad enough, and takes a cold shower. He goes to a diner for breakfast and drinks a pot of coffee, pushes eggs and pancakes around on his plate, and ends up leaving without having eaten a bit. Dean gets back in the Impala, drives across four state lines, and ends up in Blue Earth. 

He knocks on Jim's door and when the priest gives him a fish-eyed look, says, "I need to learn everything I can about runes. Who do I go to for that?" 

"Josiah Aiken, but Dean," Jim says, trails off as Dean turns around and goes back to the car. 

\--

Josiah Aiken is a man around John's age, maybe a little older. It's hard to tell, he has runes tattooed all over his body, some of them look Norse, most of them don't. He opens the front door of a run-down two story in a run-down neighbourhood before Dean knocks, before Dean's even out of his car, and waves for Dean to come in before disappearing back inside. 

The house is dark, not in an eerie sense, but generally dim, and Josiah comes out of a kitchen with a cup of coffee in each hand, says, "Photophobic." At Dean's raised eyebrow, Josiah hands one cup of coffee over and grins. "Not afraid of light, just light-sensitive. Too many hours of computer screens and those shitty fluorescents at libraries. Come on in." 

Josiah leads Dean into a living room overflowing with books, moves a few piles off of a couch and an armchair onto the floor and lets Dean have his pick. Dean sits in the chair, shifting slightly to sink in to the worn cushion, and sips his coffee, looking around, while Josiah stands in the doorway, hands cradling his own mug. 

Most of the books are old, hardbound, with stitched-in titles, and the great majority of the titles aren't in English. There aren’t more than a handful of Latin books, but there are a few Greek texts, closely stacked next to an army of Greek dictionaries and encyclopaedias. 

"I hate Greek," Josiah admits, must have followed Dean's gaze. "Makes no sense to me, all those damned compounds. Latin, too, but old Norse, now _there's_ a gorgeous thing." Dean smiles and nods, but the nod’s impatient and the smile’s thin, so Josiah sighs and shifts, says, “Jim called. Said you flew out of Blue Earth like a man possessed.” He pauses, glances Dean over, and adds, “Or maybe like a man trying to run from something.” 

Dean takes another gulp of coffee, dark and bitter, and shrugs, looking at the books instead of the man. “I need to learn everything I can about runes. Jim said you were the go-to guy for that. I’m Dean. Dean Winchester.” 

“I know,” Josiah says, and before Dean can ask, says, “Jim told me, but you showed up here exactly like your daddy did a couple years back. Which alphabet?” Josiah asks, changing the subject as he steps toward the bookshelves, eagle eyes flicking from the books to Dean and then back in one quick second. 

“Norse, I guess,” Dean says, leaning forward, ignoring for now the mention of his father. “I’m not really sure.” As Josiah’s reaching out for one of the books, covered in dust and paperback, not hardbound, he adds, “Someone said something about _nauthiz_ ,” and watches as Josiah stills, turns back to look at Dean, eyes narrowed. 

“ _Nauthiz_ ,” he echoes, flat and disbelieving, and when Dean nods, just once, Josiah sighs, pulls out the book. “Who’s playing around with the Elder Futhark these days?” he asks. 

Dean shrugs, sips his coffee before replying, “Some guy I know,” and his stomach clenches, because it’s true, Sam _is_ a guy Dean knows, but Sam’s more than that, always has been, no matter what Sam says about making Dean need him, want him. 

Sam has been the centre of Dean’s world, ever since his parents brought Sam home from the hospital and let him hold Sam the first time, ever since John put Sam in his arms and told him to run, all the times John told him to keep Sam safe, all the times Sam looked to him, and not to their father. Before the sex, before Sam came home and charmed his way under Dean, around Dean, he was already entrenched inside of Dean, in too deep to do anything but leave Dean aching with Sam’s absence. 

“Right,” Josiah says, and drops the book in Dean’s lap. Dean looks down, reads the cover, and picks up the book, holding it in one hand, the pages easily two inches thick between the covers. “An introduction,” the old man goes on. “Before you delve into one rune, you need to have a basic understanding of all of them. Once you get through that, you can tell me just where you heard of the _nauthiz_ rune and how you want to study it.” 

“It’s an anchor rune?” Dean half-asks. “Used as part of some kind of binding.” 

Josiah’s face pales. He nods, says, “Once you’re through that. Grab your pack, Dean; this’ll take a while. If you can clear the books off of the bed upstairs, it’s yours for as long as you need it.” 

\--

It takes a week before Dean finishes the book; Sam’s always been better at research, Dean’s more the ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ kind of guy, but he’s struggled his way through pages and pages of description about each and every one of the Elder Futhark runes, thinks he has information leaking out of his ears, has dreams where Sam’s covered in runes like Josiah, twists and turns and angles, wakes up every morning with come-covered clothes and an erection that won’t go away until he’s pumping it in the shower, Sam’s name a blur on his tongue and in his mind as he comes. 

He wants to go back to Sam, feels everything inside of him pushing him back towards San Francisco, but instead of getting in the Impala and driving, he finishes his shower, dresses, and gets back to the book. 

\-- 

He thumps the book down in front of Josiah the morning after three hazy hours of sleep, and says, “’M done. What’s next?” 

Josiah looks up from a plate of charred bacon and runny eggs, gestures his fork at the seat across the rickety kitchen table, and says, “Tell me a story while I eat. Helps the digestion.” Dean stares blankly, circles and bags under his eyes, and Josiah huffs, stabs a piece of egg that squelches, and says, “Tell me about _nauthiz_. Where you heard it, what it’s in, everything.” 

\--

_Sam glares from beneath his bangs, and when Dean offers him a hand, he smacks it away and pushes himself up from the ground._

_“Dude, you_ know _you gotta watch for,” Dean says, before Sam cuts him off._

_“Yeah, I got it, thanks.”_

_John sighs, tells Dean to start his run, that he’ll work with Sam for a while._

_Dean leaves, but not without giving Sam a look that very clearly means not to fuck with their father. John’s been on edge lately, like killing the succubus here wasn’t good enough, wasn’t their mission, but all he does outside of that is sit in the university library and read, have meetings with the history and religious studies professors, write letters to people in Europe, people connected with the church in Rome._

_Dean’s tried figuring out what’s going on, but he honestly can’t, and Sam’s too silent these days to talk to, too withdrawn and hostile to do anything with but fuck or fight, and it seems like he’s always going down, on Dean’s cock and on the ground, shoving off their help, their concern,_ them _._

_When Dean gets back, Sam’s nowhere to be seen, and John’s sitting on the front step, holding his side, maybe a rib._

_“You’re too afraid to hurt him, Dean,” John says without preamble. “And he doesn’t want to hurt you at all. The things we go after, they won’t love you.”_

_Dean swallows, sits down next to his father, and says, “I know.”_

_If this is love, it sucks. It hurts._

\--

It’s not a long story to tell, in the end. It takes Dean all of Josiah’s breakfast and two cups of coffee to share, though Josiah eats fast, messy, and he gulps down coffee like the liquid’s water, not some near-toxic sludge. 

Josiah looks fascinated, and when Dean’s done, Josiah leans back in his chair, belches once, and says, “I’ve never actually heard of anyone who had the capacity to withstand casting that rune in that combination.” 

Dean thinks about that for a moment, asks, “What do you mean?” very slowly and carefully. 

“Well, as the keystone rune in an anchor bond,” Josiah says, then trails off, shakes his head. “It’s just strong, that’s all, arguably one of the strongest in the alphabet. The need that _nauthiz_ represents is often this very heavy weight that increases over time, you read that in the book.” 

He waits for Dean to nod, and when Dean has, not at all liking the way this sounds, Josiah continues. “It also represents a certain amount of bondage, so using it in as a binding rune makes sense, but exponentially increases the connection between the people being bound together. Of course, it blocks others from connecting with those people, which is why it kept out the goddess you mentioned.” 

This is all fascinating, it really is, but Dean’s been waiting a study-filled week for some answers, and he’s determined to get some. 

“What does it mean?” he asks. “How does it affect those two people? Who can use it? How is it used?” 

Josiah cuts him off with a laugh, scratches his stomach, and says, “We’ll get there, Dean. Promise.”


	5. Chapter 5

It’s another two weeks before Dean’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, polishing his guns to keep his hands busy while his mind whirls in circles. He knows about _nauthiz_ now, knows about the anchor-rune Sam drew on him, knows more about what Sam is, to be capable of doing such a thing. 

Sam needs him, and has bound himself to Dean forever. _Nauthiz_ is permanent, it can’t ever come off, can’t ever be revoked. Sam used some of himself in drawing the rune, gave up some of his own life, gave up the right to his life. If Dean’s ever hurt, all he has to do is draw healing from Sam and he’ll be fine. Sam might not be, but Dean can use his brother’s gifts if he can just tap into the rune. 

He’s not sure he wants to; the thought of being capable of all that Sam is, the thought of being what Sam is, terrifies him. 

Even the thought of Sam is terrifying at times, the way his brother looked talking to the goddess, the way Sam stood there and let Connor whip his back to shreds, the way Sam’s so blithe and loose about the drugs, about the whoring. 

Sam _needs_ him, though, and whatever Sam might think or pretend to think, Dean needs him just as much. The compulsion to go back to Sam has increased every day and Dean’s not sure how much longer he’s capable of fighting it. 

The binding wouldn’t have taken if Dean’s need wasn’t equal to Sam’s. _Nauthiz_ doesn’t work, otherwise, just like it doesn’t work on those who’ve been manipulated into believing something untrue, which means that Sam knows that Dean truly needs him just as much as Sam needs Dean. Sam’s been playing a game this whole time, one Dean doesn’t understand.

Dean picks up his phone, presses the speed-dial for the bar, and when Frankie answers, he says, “Let me talk to Sam,” nothing but cold expectation in his tone. 

“Sam’s not here,” Frankie replies, and when Dean tells him to put him through to Sam’s phone, Frankie hesitates, eventually says, “He’s at O’Dell’s and he, he won’t be able to answer his phone. Would you rather talk to Liam?” 

Dean’s blood runs cold with fury, and he manages to bite out, “Yeah. Yeah, let me talk to Liam.” 

The phone hums as it transfers, then rings once, twice, three times. 

“Hello?”

“Let me talk to my brother.” Dean manages to speak with a flat, even tone, but it’s hard, all of this anger and sorrow inside, fury and sadness mingling to freeze his veins and choke him. There’s a pause on the other end, much as there was with Frankie, and something about the pause, about the hesitation, makes Dean say, “ _Now_ , Liam.”

The ice in Dean’s blood, veins, melts in a swell of fire, hot and scorching, flashing through him and leaving him trembling, panting, as Sam drawls, “Goodbye, Dean,” and hangs up. 

Dean stands up, wobbles his way towards the door, muscles aching, and collapses halfway there as his body gets submerged in a heat and pleasure so intense that Dean’s sobbing when he comes, shaking as he kneels on the floor above Josiah’s library. He crawls to the wall, pulls himself up, and as soon as he’s vertical, the fire comes again, knocks him back down, and wrings another orgasm out of him. 

He can’t breathe, can’t think, but knows he needs to do something, so he claws his way upwards, and the heat attacks him before he’s even got one foot under him. He comes with a pained shriek, lies on the floor and tries to find air, but then the fire starts burning him and it won’t stop, doesn’t stop, until he blacks out. 

\--

Dean dreams, and in his dream, he sees Sam, and inside of Sam, he sees a scorpion sitting on a block of ice, and inside of the ice, he sees a heart, and inside of the heart, he sees fire, and inside of the fire, he sees himself. When the fire spreads to the heart, when the heart melts the ice, the scorpion will kill him. 

Dean dreams, and in his dreams, he understands that Sam is not the scorpion, but pretends to be one, protects himself as he pretends, and he understands that he is not fire, but earth, pounding and pulsing, and ice is all that separates him from his brother, an ice of Sam’s making, an ice close to being destroyed by Dean with the same fire that might scorch the scorpion to death before the scorpion can kill him. 

Dean dreams, and then he wakes up reaching for a gun. 

“Easy, Dean,” Josiah says, and leans over Dean, checks Dean’s pupils. “I moved the knife from under your pillow; didn’t want you killing me when you woke up. How’re you feeling?”

Dean inhales, exhales, and runs through a mental catalogue of his bones and muscles. “Sore,” he says, “and tired. How long was I out?”

“A few hours,” Josiah says as he sits back. He pins Dean with a stare, and says, “Though you’re lucky. Whoever’s on the other end of that rune must be strong.” Dean winces, looks away, and Josiah hums, says, “You should’ve told me. I wouldn’t’ve made you wait.” 

“Why not?” Dean asks, pushing himself up, and even that minor effort hurts, makes his muscles scream in protest, leaves him weak, slightly out of breath.

“Because the things you need,” Josiah answers, slowly, carefully, making sure Dean’s following him, “aren’t things you can live without.” 

Dean’s heart stops. 

Josiah nods, “Food. Water. Air. And whoever’s on the other end of this can’t be surviving very well without you there. Hell, I can’t believe _you’re_ doing this good. You should’ve been drawn back to the caster days ago.” 

“I’ve been fighting it,” Dean whispers. “What happened, was that.”

“The other person, drawing something out of you,” Josiah says, answering Dean. “Sexual energy, if the way I found you’s anything to go by, but that could be transmuted into anything.” He stops, takes a deep breath, and says, “I don’t like telling people what to do, Dean, but if you don’t go back, one or both of you won’t be around much longer. And,” he says, carefully, “I think you _want_ to go back. Don’t you.”

Dean leaves the next morning. 

\--

He’s got the bar on speed-dial, calls every half hour. Every time, Frankie tells him that Sam’s sleeping, that Sam’s busy, that Sam “doesn’t want to fucking talk to you, you shithead, so stop fucking calling him.” In between calling the bar, Dean calls O’Dell’s house, having gone through a circle of contacts to get the unlisted number. Liam’s the only one who answers at first, and Dean doesn’t spare more than a passing thought of who got to Connor before he did, but as Dean crosses into Nebraska, Liam stops answering and just lets the phone ring and ring. 

Dean keeps calling.

\--

It’s one in the morning when Dean pulls up in front of the bar. He leaves the Impala in the alley and barges inside, puzzled when he registers that the atmosphere’s tense, as if every person’s surreptitiously looking over their shoulders, keeping close to their friends and eyeing strangers with suspicion. They all look at Dean when the door closes, as if they can hear the quiet snick over the thumping music, and Dean raises an eyebrow in response, heading for the bar a moment later. 

Frankie’s standing there, behind the bar, watching Dean approach, and as Dean gets into audible range, he starts shaking his head. “He’s not here,” Frankie says, then says it again, “He’s not here, he’s not upstairs.” 

“Where’s Sam,” Dean asks, voice low, and he shifts on his feet, lets Frankie catch a glimpse of the gun Dean’s carrying. Frankie’s eyes widen and he swallows, and Dean almost laughs at the stereotypical picture of a man afraid. 

“With Liam,” Frankie says, stepping back again, as if he knows how angry that answer is going to make Dean, as if he’s scared for his life even with a bar between them and two hundred people watching. 

Dean nods, narrows his eyes and says, “I’m going to go upstairs and take a look at his room, and then I’ll head over there.” Underneath the words, swimming inside of his tone and his expression, he’s saying, _Don’t fuck with me, and if anything’s wrong with him, I’ll kill you all._

Frankie nods, and Dean takes off, practically sprinting up the steps. This close to Sam, being in the same city, is making the binding almost impossible to resist, this compulsion to find Sam, to be with Sam, thrumming through his veins and fighting to take control of his muscles. 

Dean kicks the door down, presses his hand on the doorframe as he stares around the room, the pain of splinters digging into his palm keeping him focused, standing there, trying to understand what he’s seeing. Sam’s room has been trashed, completely ruined. There are clothes everywhere, symbols painted on the wall with lotion or oil, something that shimmers rainbow-slick in the light, something that dripped down the wall and ruined the edges of runes Dean half-recognises. Book pages are scattered all over the place, ripped and balled up, pieces sticking to drops on the floor of a substance Dean hopes isn’t blood. 

By far, though, the most fascinating and horrifying change, is in the paintings Dean had seen before, those abstract splotches of paint on canvas, two colours bleeding into one another. He understands, now, the fact that those abstractions are really runes, the powerful ones like _thurisaz_ and _kenaz_ , and seeing them now, the canvases hanging in tatters, black paint splashed over them, makes chills run up and down Dean’s spine. 

He stands there a moment longer, then runs down the stairs, into the Impala, and drives across town like if he doesn’t, he might die. He might. He’s not sure what all of the rules about a binding like this are.

The closer he gets to O’Dell’s house, the more he realises his blood is singing, burning inside of him. It feels like a threat and a promise both, but then he’s hard, and he can feel lips on his cheek, moving their way up to suck on his earlobe. He shivers, and the phone starts ringing. Dean ignores it, ignores the lips trailing over his body, ignores the pressing need of his erection, and keeps driving. 

\--

Dean bangs on the door, closed fist pounding over and over, and when no one immediately answers, he pounds a rhythm out with both fists, kicking at the door and yelling for Liam. His phone, left in the car, is still ringing. Dean aches with the stinging heat of flames, and he’s almost ready to scream before the door opens under his fists and he nearly falls inside, caught off-guard. 

“He doesn’t want to see you,” Liam says, but Dean pushes past him, into the house. He stops, looks around, because this house is a block long and he has no idea where Sam is, but then fire flares, and he looks left, unerringly drawn in that direction. “Dean, he doesn’t,” Liam says, but Dean punches him, leaves him unconscious in front of the door, and starts running, careening around corners, sliding on polished floors, yelling his brother’s name. 

There’s no answer, but as Dean moves further and deeper into the house, the singing gets louder, the lips on his skin are pressing hard enough almost to bruise, and then he’s standing in front of a door. 

The rune pulls him forward, and when Dean opens the door, Sam’s on the other side, staring down at him. 

It’s a moment that lasts forever, as Dean takes in the image of his brother, the way Sam’s paler than milk, thin and wretched-looking, green-tinged bags under his eyes. Sam’s clothes are falling off of him, and his hair is stringy, the dye grown out and leaving his roots two shades darker, two shades closer to normal. His brother’s shaking, trembling, and there’s no trace of the self-sufficient, cat-like creature left in the wreck of Sam standing right there. 

“Sam,” Dean breathes, reaches out to touch his brother. 

Sam flinches, panic and madness in his eyes, steps back, and says, “I don’t want you here, Dean. I don’t want you. Go away, leave me alone.” Dean steps in to the room, and Sam says, “Please, Dean. Leave.” 

Dean shakes his head, touches Sam’s skin, and then his world blurs as the bond between them zings and clips into place. Dean reels, blinks, and then Sam’s all over him, dragging him to the bed and undressing him at the same time. It’s all Dean can do to keep up with his brother, with how fast Sam’s moving, pushing Dean on to the bed, first sucking on Dean’s neck, then his hip a split-second later, fingers first dancing across Dean’s nipples, then curling around the base of Dean’s cock, hard and leaking. 

“Sam,” he murmurs, arching his lips as Sam takes him in, swallows him down, and before Dean can wind his hands in Sam’s hair, fire floods through him and he comes, strangled cry echoing in the room. 

Sam doesn’t stop once Dean’s done coming, just starts licking Dean’s skin, sucking and biting lightly as he grazes his teeth over arms and legs, stomach and chest. It’s as if Sam can’t get enough of Dean, and even as Dean watches, feels another orgasm build up in his toes as Sam ruts against him, Dean sees Sam heal. His colour returns, the sickly pallor of his skin clears and goes away, and now Sam doesn’t look as ill, looks well on his way to being sleek and lithe again. 

“Fuck me,” Sam mouths into the hollow of Dean’s neck, words getting tangled up in skin and ears and the curves of Dean’s heart. “Dean, fuck me, please, want to feel you inside, want to come around your dick, fuck me.”

It’s hard to lie there, doing nothing more than watching as Sam tears his own clothes off, fucks himself open on his fingers, but it’s impossible to sit still when Sam rolls, propping himself up on knees and elbows, still begging, his litany of words falling past the point of Dean’s comprehension. 

Sam keens when Dean enters him slow and easy, tries to rock back, but Dean’s hands are tight on Sam’s hips, pressing marks of ownership into Sam’s bones. “Easy,” he murmurs, then smoothes a hand down Sam’s back as Sam shudders, whimpers. “I’ll get you there, Sam, I promise. Always will. I’m yours, Sam. I’m yours.” 

Dean’s world narrows to the way Sam feels tight around him, to the way Sam’s breathing under him, the way Sam’s begging, saying things like, ‘whore’ and ‘slut’ and ‘yours.’

“My brother,” Dean whispers, and it should sound filthy, sound _wrong_ , but it doesn’t. “My Sam,” he murmurs, and he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the nearest piece of Sam’s skin, tongue swiping across that sweat-slick bitter tang. “Not a whore, never a whore.” 

Sam comes silently, shaking, and when Dean does as well, pulls out and turns Sam around, he reaches up for Sam’s face, wipes tears off of Sam’s cheeks, tugs Sam into his arms. 

“I did some research,” Dean says gently. “You’re such an overachiever, y’know that?” and is rewarded by a choked laugh from this still-broken Sam that’s nothing like his Sam, nothing like the reflection of Sam he’s come to expect. His brother, the chameleon. “Why didn’t you tell me, you idiot?” 

Sam sits there, circled by Dean’s arms, for a few minutes as silence stretches between them. Finally, he shakes his head, tries to pull away, and Dean holds him tighter, presses himself closer to Sam. 

“No,” he says, nails digging into Sam’s skin. “You’re not going anywhere, Sam. Not until you answer me.” 

“You don’t need me, Dean,” Sam says gently, and when Dean starts to argue, Sam says, “Not really. You want the Sam you knew. You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve done, what I am. I’m not a good person.”

Dean chuckles, licks a path up the side of Sam’s neck, bites down on the skin just behind Sam’s ear. “And I am? And you think I care? Dude. Shut up.”

Sam lays there a moment longer, but the second Dean starts carding his fingers through Sam’s hair, Sam elbows him in the stomach, pulls away and stands up, all in one smooth motion that emphasises how otherworldy he is; nothing human could ever be that graceful. 

“Sam?” Dean asks, and sits up, scoots to the edge of the bed when Sam starts digging around for clothes. “The hell’re you doing?” 

“Leaving,” Sam snaps. “I thought that’d be easy to guess, even for such a thick-headed, starry-eyed fool as you've turned out to be. This is life, Dean. Deal with it.” 

Dean stands, gets right in Sam’s face, and says, “Fuck you, Sam. If you leave, you’ll _die_ ,” and falls to the ground, unconscious, world turning hazy black, after Sam spits some words at him. 

\--

_Dean adjusts the sun visor, testing every angle before he gives up, puts it back up and smashes his sunglasses a little closer to his face. “Sam and school, dunno why he loves it so much,” Dean says, tapping his fingers against the dash, leaning forward to watch the main entrance to the high school. John, sitting behind the wheel, smiles but doesn’t say anything. Dean sighs, says, “He didn’t mean it, Dad,” and watches that smile slip from John’s face._

_“Yeah, Dean. He did.”_

_“Dad,” is all Dean says before his father cuts him off._

_John shakes his head, says, “Don’t worry about it, Dean. Sam’s going through a phase. One day he’ll appreciate it.”_

_Dean gets the distinct impression that his father is talking about more than just the argument John and Sam’d had that morning, about moving again, changing schools midway through the year. He’s not sure why, but he thinks his father and brother have been having a lot more arguments recently that are about something other than whatever the latest excuse to yell and shout is. More than feeling kept out of some loop, some information, Dean’s just left with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach._

_The bell echoes out across the parking lot, and Dean straightens, watching the doors and the students pouring out of them, searching for Sam. He doesn’t lay eyes on his brother, not until most of the stragglers have already left, and Sam’s walking out with another kid in his class, a guy that’s a few inches shorter than Sam, with hair that doesn’t so much curl as corkscrew out from his head._

_Dean realises the second his father does, the way the two are walking, almost too close, heads ducked together and laughing, and something inside of Dean hardens, has him opening the door and yelling out, “Come on, Sammy! We’re running late.”_

_Sam’s eyes flick to Dean instantly, and Dean gives the other kid a smile that borders more on possessive than it does on friendly. Dean’s eyes narrow when he sees Sam lay a hand on the kid’s shoulder, whisper something into the kid’s ear, but Sam gets in Dean’s car, sits behind Dean for hours and hours as they move from Arizona to New Hampshire, and Sam will never see that kid again, won’t be thinking about him later when Sam’s back is pressed against a gas station wall somewhere in Texas and he’s panting out Dean’s name in ragged groans._

\--

Dean wakes up and looks around. Liam’s perched on the edge of the bed, holding a bag of frozen peas to his cheekbone. 

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to kill the messenger?” he asks, moving the peas, wincing as he pokes and prods at the massive bruise Dean gave him. 

Sam’s clothes are gone, the indefinable aura of _Sam_ is gone, and Dean aches inside, an ache fed by the bond stretching too tight as Sam puts distance between them. 

“He’s gone,” Dean murmurs. 

Liam nods, as if it was a question, and says, “I searched the house, but he’s not here. Tried scrying for him as well, but the crystal broke. He doesn’t want to be found.” 

Dean stands up, snarls, “Well tough fucking _shit_ ,” and takes off. 

\--

He regrets it later, driving down to San Diego—not leaving, but leaving without getting some answers from Liam first. He calls, and when Liam answers before the first ring’s even done, as if he’s been waiting, Dean says, “Tell me what happened. Why were you and Frankie acting so terrified? What the hell happened to Sam’s room?” He pauses, then, as if the thought’s just hit him, “What the fuck happened to your boss?” 

There’s a choked laugh on the other end of the phone, and Liam says, “Connor was my cousin, Dean, not my boss. Calling me his secretary, that’s something we did ever since we moved to this country. People don’t mind a man and his secretary fucking, but they tend to look down on cousins sleeping together. And before you ask, yes, we knew you were Sam’s brother. Security, though,” Liam adds, more quietly, “that was good. True, I think.” 

“He _was_ your cousin?” Dean asks, catching on the past tense the way only a man deserted can. 

Liam laughs again, sounds tired and brimming with desperation, empty and angry, all at once. “Connor asked Sam to come back, just once. It was like Síla said; Sam was just humouring Connor. He got sick of playing Connor’s games. I didn’t,” Liam says, pauses and inhales, says, “With the rune on, I didn’t even care,” like he’s admitting the cause of his own damnation.

It takes Dean a minute to comprehend what Liam’s just said, and when he does, he lets out a muffled curse and says, quietly, “I won’t tell you I’m sorry, because I’m not.”

“I wasn’t expecting any sympathy from you, Dean Winchester,” comes the reply, and Dean respects Liam a little bit more for that. 

They’re quiet, Dean passes five exits on the highway before asking, “You gonna answer my questions?” one hand gripping the phone, the other clenched around the steering wheel, knuckles white as fire blooms in his veins. 

“After you left,” Liam says, and then stops. Dean waits, waits and drives, face turned to look at the road, eyes not focused on anything. “After you left and after Sam killed Connor, he went crazy, went on this rampage and. Said he didn’t want the runes, the connections, not if it felt like you were always there, too. He broke them all at the same time, smashed up the power he had stored in the paintings. Doing it like that, it should have killed him.”

“But it didn’t,” Dean says, mind racing, trying to remember everything he read at Josiah's, most of it already gone from his mind, everything except the name of the rune used in the anchoring, _nauthiz_ , need, like it’s replaying in his mind, over and over again, attached to a name. _Need Sam. Need Sam. Need Sam._

“No,” Liam whispers. “But it was terrifying to see.” Liam hesitates, and when Dean’s about to ask what’s going on, what was so terrifying, Liam says, “Good luck finding him, Dean, and don’t call me again,” and hangs up.

\--

He misses Sam by a day in Phoenix, by a week in Missoula, by hours in Biloxi. Sam doesn’t stop moving, but as the weeks turn into a month, then close in on two, the link binding him to Sam weakens, tries pulling arousal out of Dean and fails, not strong enough to do more than make Dean’s heart flutter every time he asks someone different if they’ve seen his brother. Sam’s dying, that much is clear, even to Dean. 

The rune sputters on a Tuesday, as Dean’s driving west towards Indianapolis, and he pulls over on the side of a crappy little state highway in Ohio when his own heart skips a beat. 

“Come on,” he murmurs, and in a fit of desperation, scratches his hip, right over the spot where Sam drew the anchoring rune. Dean’s nails are jagged, he draws blood, and the bond between them shivers, the sputtering steadies, and Dean’s trying not to sob in relief. 

“Hold on,” he says, and pulls back on the road, drives a little faster, turns his music a little louder. “Just hold on, Sammy.”

\--

Sam didn’t make it to the city. He’s holed up in a small motel just east of Indianapolis, and Dean’s relieved to see that no one else is around when he follows the rune into the parking lot. There’s only one room with a light on, and when Dean tries the doorknob, it opens. 

Sam’s lying on the bed, still in his clothes, either fast asleep or unconscious, and Dean looks around, doesn’t notice that anything else has been touched, and thinks that this place, with its lace curtains and too-bright wallpaper, would be a shitty place to die. 

He strips, jacks the heater up a little, and then undresses Sam, worried when Sam doesn’t wake up, just shifts, moving closer to Dean, turning his face towards Dean’s. It’s a hollow victory, seeing Sam react like that in his sleep, and Dean leans down, presses his mouth to Sam’s. 

“Wake up,” he says, words ghosting over Sam’s lips like Dean’s tongue had a moment before. “Please, Sam. Wake up.” 

Sam stirs, frowns, and opens his eyes, fixing glazed pupils on Dean. Sam’s eyes don’t look dead, don’t look manic. They just seem tired, as if Sam’s ready to give up and let go. 

“Go ‘way,” he slurs, and musters up enough energy to pull one hand away from Dean, let it flop over his stomach, as if saying that the rest of him will follow soon enough, just give it time. 

“That first time,” Dean says, drawing Sam’s attention back. “That first time, Sam, when you came home and asked me to fuck you. Why did you ask me? And don’t lie, please.” 

“’Cause I wanted you,” Sam mutters, pushing the words out, head lolling backwards, muscles twitching. “Ev’ry way I could have you. Need you.” 

Dean swallows, finds the rune, the way it felt when it pulled him to Sam, the way it led him here, let him know how Sam was doing, and _pushes_. Sam arches, spine bending, and his lips part in pain or pleasure, Dean’s not sure. 

Dean keeps pushing until Sam’s eyes focus, until he doesn’t look like he’ll die at any second, and then asks, “Do you still?” 

When Sam glares, Dean says, “You left, Sam. You were right, you’ve changed. But so have I. I still want— _need_ —you, no tricks, no mind-games; I came after you when you were too weak to keep them up and you know it. Three years, and I still wanted you the second I saw you. But do you need me anymore? Or do you just need the heroin and a cock, no matter whose?” 

It hurts to say, but Dean has to, has to know. He’s never been big on talking, never understands the power of words when he uses them to lie, to trick people day after day after day, but when Sam looks up at him and says, almost as if he’s being forced to, almost as if this is a confession made against his will, “Idiot. You know it’s you. I damned myself for you, you think it was easy?” he thinks he finally gets it, because those words knock the breath right out of his lungs. 

“Bitch,” he says, mouth on autopilot. Sam winces, it takes Dean a minute to look past the self-deprecating curve of Sam’s lips, under the light mockery and forced blankness of Sam’s eyes, and see wariness, hesitation, understand what that means in response to what he’s just said. 

“ _Nauthiz_ ,” Dean says. “And neither of us are whores because of it. I mean, if it’s good enough for a goddess.” 

Sam searches Dean’s eyes, finally smiles wearily and looks away. 

Dean smiles back even though no one sees it, smiles because Sam’s not moving, not leaving. He might not be looking at Dean, there are a million and one discussions hanging between them, and they’ll all hurt to have, dig deep and make old wounds surface, but Sam’s not leaving. 

Sam’s not leaving. 

\--

They lay there, side by side, Dean staring up at the ceiling and Sam tilted towards the bathroom, for hours. At some point they pull the covers up and sleep, and Dean wakes up to Sam’s nose buried in his armpit. That has to reek, has probably killed Sam with the stench, because Dean hasn’t showered in what feels like years. Still, he doesn’t want to move Sam, doesn’t want this to change, because Sam’s sleeping against him and there aren’t any lines around his eyes or his mouth. 

Dean falls back asleep, eyes lingering on the curve of Sam’s shoulder, tracing edges of bones and lines of muscle, breathing in Sam. 

The smell follows Dean into his dreams and he wakes up hard, dick tenting the sheet, aching for release. Sam’s already awake, must be, because he’s moved, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. Dean kicks the sheet off, rolls over, straddles his brother, fingers grazing over Sam’s tattoos, and when Sam looks at him, frown marring his forehead, Dean grins. 

“I’m horny,” he says, “and I think it’s your fault, so we’re going to fuck.” 

Sam rolls his eyes, but shifts underneath Dean, says, “There’s lube and condoms in my jeans pocket. Back right.” 

Dean reaches down, gropes through the pocket and sits up, bottle and plastic packet in hand. Sam looks resigned, underneath him, tired and worn-out, but when Dean starts stroking Sam, he closes his eyes. 

Sam doesn’t move, doesn’t make a noise, and it hits Dean that his brother’s been whoring for two years now, that sex might mean as little to Sam as it does to anyone else who gets paid for it. Sure, it’s not like Dean sees sex as this all-encompassing means to physically express love, it’s usually just for fun, stress-release, but it’s been a job for Sam, nothing more. 

In a way, he’s a little pleased that Sam’s not pretending to enjoy this more than he actually is, hoping for a better tip, trying to take better care of a customer, that he’s comfortable enough or just doesn’t care enough to put on a show for Dean. He doesn’t like that Sam isn’t stopping him, though, wonders if Sam would ever tell him no. 

The packet opens between Dean’s teeth, and Sam’s eyes fly open when he feels Dean rolling the condom onto his dick, not onto Dean’s as Dean guesses Sam expected. 

“Dean,” Sam says, falling silent when Dean shakes his head. He watches, though, as Dean lubes him up, as Dean stretches himself, as Dean lifts up and then sinks down, so slowly that Dean thinks it might kill them both. It’s been months since he’s been fucked, feels like it, so tight, but this is the first time it’s ever been Sam’s cock inside, the first time it’s ever been his brother gazing up at him with blown pupils, the first time it’s ever been Sam’s hands hesitantly settling on Dean’s hips. 

One of Sam’s fingers brushes the edge of the invisible anchor rune, and Dean groans, gives up the battle and falls, feeling everything in him burn as Sam’s inside and they’re skin to skin.

“Dean,” Sam says again, looking up with wide eyes. “Dean, you didn’t.” The tattoo over Sam’s heart, _Ad Libitum_ , is flaring red, burnt crimson against Sam’s skin, and Dean runs his fingers over it, feels it warm up under his touch.

“I know,” Dean says, and plants his palms on Sam’s chest, fingers curled so his nails leave little crescent moons of blood in the middle of that pale, pale skin. “I wanted. I wanted to.” 

\--

_Dean sits up, tries to remember the dream that woke him up but can’t. The curtain’s open, fluttering in a late summer breeze, and the moon’s full, spreading silver over the tops of trees. The house is quiet, for once, not creaking or popping, sounds like the fridge is in the quiet part of its cycle, humming just under the range of audible noise, and John’s been gone for two weeks, hunting something three states away._

_Dean looks down at the person next to him, in bed, and smiles._

_Sam’s sleeping with his mouth open again, eyelashes curved against his cheeks, hair tossed this way and that. His lips are swollen, the sheet’s riding low on his hips, and in the moonlight, with bruises, bite-marks, fingerprints, and the curving words of a tattoo limned in silver, Sam doesn’t look like he belongs here, next to Dean, covered in the proof of Dean’s possession._

_Dean would never say it out loud, hates thinking it, but Sam looks beautiful. Sam_ is _beautiful, and he’s the only one who ever gets to see Sam like this, naked and unguarded. Sam is his, will be forever if Dean has anything to say about it._

_It might be minutes or hours of staring later when Sam stirs, opens his eyes and gives Dean a bleary-eyed look that makes Dean smile, reach out to run a hand through his brother’s hair._

_“Go back to sleep,” Dean murmurs, and Sam blinks, licks his lips, and closes his eyes, snuggling into Dean’s side._

\--

Sam looks better afterwards, and Dean’s guessing that maybe he’s some sort of incubus now, makes a promise that if that’s the case, Sam won’t ever be getting his meals from anyone but Dean. 

It’s not a comfortable silence, exactly, though it could be worse. Dean can almost feel Sam thawing, hear his brother thinking, and wonders what sorts of things are running through Sam’s head, if they’re the same things running through his own, wonders if Sam's going to try and leave again. 

“Are you,” he asks, before he can stop himself, and Sam turns, looks at Dean, question in his eyes. “Heroin,” Dean says. “Do you need,” and stops again. 

Sam shrugs, turns back around. “Did withdrawal while I was running,” he says, words hanging in the air between them. “There wasn’t enough time to work for it and I couldn’t exactly get any in the smaller towns.”

“Bet it sucked.” 

Sam doesn’t say anything to that, and Dean traces two fingers over the ‘x’ on Sam’s arm.

He’s about ready to say something to break up the silence, but then his phone rings and they both jump. Sam shifts as Dean answers, says, “Hello?” without checking the caller ID. 

Sam turns, looks at Dean, and understands the sudden panic Dean’s showing as soon as Dean says, “Dad. Hi.”


End file.
